


for you

by orphan_account



Series: lover i'll wait for you always [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Australia, Eventual Romance, F/F, Femlock, Genderswap, Location Change: Australia, Probably not much sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-18 06:32:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 32,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years have passed since Joan last saw Sherlock at school. Joan's been to university and been to war. And now Sherlock's a detective and Joan's her room mate. </p><p>Set in Australia.</p><p>You probably don't have to read 'lover i'll wait' to understand part two, but it'll help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Of the Sherlocks avaliable, this is going to follow BBC Sherlock most closely, with some additions or omissions (male!Morstan exists, but Molly Hooper is replaced by Sarah, since Molly was used in the previous section). I'm not going to recount all the stories and scenes, since if I wanted that I'd just go get a script for the show, but some will be unavoidable.
> 
> Please note, I've been to Melbourne exactly once in my life. There were lots of people, the trams were confusing, and I got rained on and sunburned within the same 24 hours. I would have picked a different city, but Melbourne seemed most logical.

The lights of the Melbourne street below came flickering in through the window, decorating the wall opposite Joan with an array of ever changing colours. It was late, or early, and she didn’t want to be awake, but sleep only brought nightmares, and memories.

There were no words for this emotion, this emptiness that was echoed by her room with nothing in it, and her nothing days that all faded into one, shapeless shadow. She breathed in carefully, and didn’t know what she was angry at.

The cane waited across the room.

 

The TV was running a repeat of an interview. The Inspector seemed harried, and out his depth. Joan pushed the red button on the remote several times before stomping across the room and slamming against the button on the TV with enough force that there was a cracking sound as it hit the wall behind. The TV was her only company, but she didn’t much care if it got broken.

 

Her blog was still empty.

 

Everything was empty.

 

- 

 

She took a walk in the park. That was good for her, her therapist said, and as weak as Joan was from the fever that had claimed her in India, and as much as she hated being seen with the cane, courtesy of Afghanistan, she hated sitting indoors more. Her focus on stepping evenly was so great that she didn’t notice Mike when she walked past him, and he had to call out several times before she turned.

“I thought you were somewhere getting shot at. What happened?” Joan thought only an idiot wouldn’t notice the cane and realise what had happened without asking.

“I got shot at.” Mike’s face fell, and Joan wondered when she’d become so terrible to be around. “I’m sorry,” she said, and attempted a smile. She hadn’t seen a familiar face in a while. “I was about to get some lunch. Do you want to join me?”

The Holborn was only a street away from the park, and she relaxed as they walked. Mike was a good sort of man, and although they had never really been friends, he was easy to get along with and happily chatted through the silences Joan left gaping in the conversation. Once they were seated, Mike looked at her, and said,

“How’s Harry?” During uni, Harry had made a concerted effort to get sober, and for a time Joan had even considered him to be something of a friend.

“Worse,” she said with a frown, sprinkling salt over her chips. “Not that there’s much to be done there. He’s a grown man, and if I can’t fix him...” Mike gave her a sympathetic smile.

“And how are you? Getting yourself sorted?” Joan laughed, and shivered.

“I hate it here.”

“Melbourne is the greatest city to live in, they say.”

Civilian life, not the city, was what she had been talking about. She ran with it anyway.

“Not if you’re poor.”

“You don’t have to live in the city itself.”

“And commute every day? No thanks. I hate the idea of living away from it all,” she said, as though she had a job keeping her in the city.

“You used to take those great long trips to the river, didn’t you?”

“A lake,” said Joan. “I like getting away, but living in the suburbs is too,” she searched for the right word, “lonely.”

In the arm, she’d been surrounded by people constantly. She’d had a place and a purpose, and now that she was out she was drifting, lost and alone in the vastness of the world.

“Get a flatmate.” Rolling her eyes, Joan tapped her cane, which was leaning against the table.

“Come on, Mike. With all the problems I have? Who would want me for a flatmate?” Mike gave her a funny look.

“You’re the second person to say that to me today.”

“Oh?”

“One of the girls in the hospital lab was making the same complaints.”

“She’s a student, then?”

“I say girl, I should say woman,” said Mike with a grin. “She’s not a student, and not a researcher. I’m not really sure what she is. Sometimes she’s there at all hours, and then weeks will go by and she can’t be found. Apparently she ruined her last flat.”

“How?”

“Having met her, I didn’t dare ask. She was telling me just this morning that she found a flat, but can’t afford it alone.” Joan considered. Someone who had ruined their last flat was perhaps not someone to be leaping into a contract with, but Joan didn’t exactly have a range of options staring at her.

“It could work.” Mike suddenly looked worried.

“You mightn’t like her. She’s very odd.” Mike calling someone odd did nothing more than pique her interest.

“Can I meet her?”

“She was at the lab this morning so I can only presume she’ll be there this afternoon. We can go there after lunch.”

“Excellent,” said Joan. “That’s a weight off my shoulders, at least. I’m getting tired of the hotel I’ve been holed up in.”

 -

Mike took her down two stories to the very basement of the hospital, leading her down vaguely familiar winding corridors that made Joan’s leg ache. The smell reminded her of her days as a research student, and reminded her of every other hospital she’d ever been in. Her cane made a tapping noise against the hard, shiny floors.

If it weren’t for her leg, Joan would be fighting herself to stop from running away, away from this city and this life, back to the blood and the mess and the horror.

Civilian life seemed utterly pointless.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone?” asked a voice, before Joan – or Mike – had stepped into the room. “I’ve got no signal on mine.”

Joan stopped the moment her foot crossed the threshold. Stared. Ran her tongue along her teeth and considered backing out of the room forever and never coming back to this city or this state or maybe even this godforsaken country with its god-awful weather.

“Sorry, I left mine in my jacket.”

Heart pounding, Joan stepped forward, out of the doorway and into the light.

“You can borrow mine.” The eyes she had thought she’d forgotten ran over her, taking her in slowly. She suppressed a shiver of delight, knowing that Sherlock probably noticed it all the same.

“This is an old friend of mine, Joan Watson,” offered Mike.

“I know,” said Sherlock, pulling her eyes away as though she hadn’t stared at all.

“We knew each other,” said Joan.

Sherlock’s voice was a little softer than it had been when they were younger, but she still stood in that same stiff, upright manner, stepping across the room in long strides to take the phone from Joan. Her hair was tied back from her face, and she wore a neat black jacket that pulled tight on her waist.

“How was it, then?” Joan’s eyes flicked to Mike, who shook his head at Joan’s silent question. So Sherlock hadn’t given up on this part of her personality, then.

“Pardon?”

“How was Afghanistan?”

“Explosive.  How did you know?” The door behind her swung open.

“Ah, Sarah,” interrupted Sherlock, taking the coffee from her outstretched hands. Joan titled her head, slightly, eying Sarah. Her messy hair and tired face fit with the laboratory background. “What happened to the lipstick?”

“Wasn’t working for me.”

The smile she’d been wearing she entered the room had fallen at the sight of guests.

“Really? I thought it improved your face immensely.” Sarah’s face fell further.

“How did you know it was Afghanistan?” demanded Joan. Sherlock gave her a withering stare.

“How’s seven tomorrow for you?”

“What?”

“There’s a flat in Fitzroy I want to look at, together we should be able to afford it. I haven’t changed much since my school days, so I presume we’ll be fine living together. I play the violin a lot more these days, but it should all work out. 221B Baker Street at seven, then?”

“Afghanistan,” demanded Joan, as Sherlock wrapped her scarf around her neck.

“It’s obvious you’re a soldier merely from the manner in which you hold yourself, and I know your natural skin tone, but your wrists are white, so clearly you haven’t been getting that tan at Bondi. Your cane is a helpful clue in all of that, but not necessary to the final conclusion. Sorry, got to dash. Think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

Sherlock left her alone with Mike.

“I do believe she’s gotten stranger since school.”

 -

Joan went back to the sparse flat she dreaded to call home, and Googled Sherlock Holmes. She hadn’t done this since early days of discovering she could search for people on the internet, and in those days, she’d found nothing. Now, though, she found the website of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and apparent expert on types of cigarette ash.

Joan wondered if Sherlock had stopped smoking.

She wondered what had happened to her.

She wondered what she was doing, getting messed up in it again.


	2. Chapter 2

221B Baker Street was off the main thoroughfare, and Joan’s taxi had no difficulty dropping her right at the curb. The driver watched, concerned, as she struggled out of the car with her leg and her cane. Sherlock was waiting for her on the curb with a thick blue scarf around her neck. She smiled briefly at Joan, apparently not certain what was expected in this kind of situation, and knocked sharply on the door.

“Sherlock,” smiled the woman who opened it. They hugged, and Joan watched, surprised. Things had changed, if Sherlock was touching people now.

“Mrs Hudson, this is Joan, an old friend of mine. She’s going to take the apartment with me.” Mrs Hudson’s eyebrows rose slightly, either at the mention of Joan being a friend, or that she was an old one, but did not comment, and only said,

“Of course. This way, dear. Up the stairs.” Joan looked at the dark ascent. “I do apologize, dear, I know how difficult it can be. I’ve got a bad hip.” Cursing her leg and her cane Joan walked crookedly up to where Sherlock was already waiting, bouncing on her toes on the landing, key in her hand.

“Welcome to your new home.” Apparently a decision had already been made, which seemed a far cry from the cautious, uncertain teenage Sherlock she had know. Curious at the change, Joan stepped into the flat. It was cluttered with things, and Joan recognized the skull on the mantelpiece.

“You’ve moved in already. Why did you move in already?”

“There’s another room, if you’ll be needing two,” said Mrs Hudson.

“Of course we’ll be needing two,” said Joan, sharply.

She could remember all those nights spent at Sherlock’s, sleeping together in the same bed. Occasionally, lying in bed with whomever she had been dating at the time, those memories had come back. Often, those memories were the reason she’d ended things with those other people. She hadn’t been waiting for Sherlock, but with her, things had felt right, and having felt that once she wasn’t willing to settle for less.

“Sherlock,” she began, wanting to know why Sherlock’s old armchair was here, and how she’d known Joan would take the flat, but Sherlock was staring out the window. She was grinning. That kind of smile had been rare in the time Joan had known her, and she felt a pang of jealousy. That whoever was walking to the flat had managed to make Sherlock so happy...

“There’s been another murder.”

“Murder?” she asked, her mind floundering.

“Oh, not one of those suicides, again?” Mrs Hudson was fluffing up a cushion on the couch. “It’s dreadful business. You shouldn’t be so happy, Sherlock.”

“Who cares about should? This is marvellous.” The front door slammed and feet pounded up the stairs. Joan felt like she was in Afghanistan again, one step behind, scarcely able to keep up.

“Sherlock,” said the inspector who had been on the TV the previous morning. He looked no less harried, but more handsome in the flesh. He scarcely glanced at Mrs Hudson and Joan.

“There’s been another.”

“Yes. We need you.” He said it resignedly, as though he’d given up on resenting Sherlock’s existence in his life. “God help us.”

“What’s different, why are you bringing me in now?” The inspector’s eyes flashed to Joan and then Mrs Hudson, and apparently decided they weren’t the type to divulge possibly secret information.

“There’s a note.”

“Oh.” Her voice was bored, distracted.

“Please, Sherlock,” said the inspector, and Joan could detect the tired pleading, and could see the tilt to Sherlock’s lips, and knew that she was just playing.

“I’ll follow behind,” she said, dismissively.

“Thank you.” He gave a small nod to Mrs Hudson, and dashed out again.

“A note!” exclaimed Sherlock, jumping, “Brilliant. Four suicides and now a note! Mrs Hudson, Joan, don’t wait up. Food would be nice.”

“I’m not your housekeeper,” said Mrs Hudson.

“Stay here, Joan, have a cup of tea, relax a little. I’ll be out late.” Sherlock disappeared, wrapped in her coat and scarf and grinning more happily than she should. Disappointment settled in Joan’s stomach. Whatever she had been expecting from her meeting with Sherlock, this hadn’t been it.

“It’s so much quieter without her around,” said Mrs Hudson, “not that I don’t mind her being here, of course, but sometimes it is good to just sit. I’ll get you a cup of tea. Just this once. I’m not your housekeeper, remember.”

“Joan!” said Sherlock.

“What?” she exclaimed, frustrated, because she was always frustrated these days.

“You’re a doctor. An army doctor.” Sherlock was leaning against the door frame, tall and lean, and Joan felt her stomach twist.

“Yes.”

“A good one?”

“A very good one.” Sherlock stepped closer.

“You’ve seen a lot of action. Bodies blown to pieces, people mangled, that kind of thing.” Joan stared up at her. If Sherlock leaned down just slightly, and Joan reached up only a little, their lips would touch.

“Yes,” she managed. “Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”

“Want to see more?” she asked, and Joan didn’t have a word for the emotion inside of her at that question, either.

“Oh, god, yes.”

Bewildered, confused, feeling as though she was in a river sweeping towards the rapids, Joan followed.

This was more like it.

-

“Harry still drinking?” asked Sherlock in the taxi.

“Obviously. You’re still noticing everything?”

“Naturally. The army, then?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Joan looked out of the window, at the distant lights as they drove over the river.

“It seemed sensible.”

 -

The inspector’s name was Lestrade, and he hadn’t been happy at Joan’s presence, though bewildered rather than unhappy was more the correct term. His eyes flashed between them, clearly wondering what Joan was doing there but there were more pressing matters at hand. He was all business, preferring to ignore the insults thrown at Sherlock by his colleagues.

Joan winced at them all, until she realized that Sherlock gave back as good as she got, now. She’d clearly learned to cope without Joan. Joan didn’t know how to feel about that.

 -

Sherlock had been happy at the crime scene. Absorbed, thrilled, and she didn’t smell of cigarette smoke.

Joan had watched Lestrade and Gregson bicker; had listened to both arguments for and against “Rache” meaning “Rachel” or “revenge”; had cursed the ache in her leg as she bent next to the body; had stared at Sherlock who was completely at home in the situation.

Joan had felt entirely out of place, and then Sherlock had left her behind.

“You’re not her friend. She doesn’t have friends.” It was Donovan, standing with a notebook in her hand by one of the police cars.

“I was her friend, once,” said Joan.

“Stay away from her.”

“No.” Joan turned and left Donovan at the crime scene, and began the difficult walk to a road where there’d be a taxi.

Things had never been easy.

Sherlock would just make them exciting. 


	3. Chapter 3

The phone box rang, and phones kept ringing as she walked, following her down the road. When she finally answered it and a distantly familiar voice told her to get into the car, she obeyed, sighing at the games of the Holmes’.

 

“Mycroft.”

“Dr Watson.” He was leaning on an umbrella, and though it was October Joan couldn’t fault him for that. Melbourne weather was so changeable.

The warehouse was scarcely lit, but there was a chair waiting on the cement in front of the older Holmes. He was heavier, and not just physically. He stood as though he were Atlas, tired of the weight on his shoulders.

“You know, you could just call me. I have a phone. It’s actually quite a decent phone, too. I can get email on it and everything.”

“I’m glad you survived the war.”

“Oh, this is a social call, is it?” Mycroft gave Joan a very pointed look.

“What are you doing here?”

“You kidnapped me.”

“Don’t play games with me, Joan, you aren’t good enough. There is something I am used to, and it is this: I look out for Sherlock, and she looks out for me. There are no other people in the equation, at least not for long. I don’t want a repeat of what happened last time.”

Copying Mycroft’s stance, Joan leaned on her cane.

“A repeat of what, exactly? If I recall correctly, you just disappeared, with no explanation, and I think Sherlock had a broken nose.”

If the amount of blood gushing from her nose last time Joan had seen her was anything to go by, it had definitely been broken. Joan hadn’t noticed any indication of it now. Perhaps it had just healed very well. She’d have to look more carefully when she got back to the flat.

“Exactly.”

“What happened, Mycroft?”

“That is none of your business,” he declared with a sniff.

“I am going to live with her, so it is going to become my business.” Joan hadn’t actually decided on that, yet, but telling it to Mycroft made her realise it was the only logical solution. She needed a place to live. Sherlock was impossible, but Joan knew how to cope with that.

“The events involving Hartswood are not things that Sherlock would like to be made known.”

“Then why am I here?”

“I want you to leave and never come back.”

“Not happening.”

“I thought you might say that, so I’m prepared for another offer. I’d like you to keep an eye on her for me.”

“For what, exactly?” Something had changed, since high school. Joan was no longer the one confided in over a cup of tea in a cramped study while they both pretended Sherlock wasn’t listening in. Or Mycroft had become even more suspicious of the world.

“You’re an intelligent woman, Dr Watson. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“Thank you, but I think I shall decline your offer.” Joan turned to get back into the car.

“I can pay you. I know you don’t have much money as it is.”

“Pay me to watch your sister?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Really?”

“Regretting the offer, now?”

“I just thought you were of a more moral standing to give in so quickly.” Joan’s phone buzzed in her pocket. It was Sherlock, telling her to come at once, and Joan wasn’t at all surprised.

“I have to go. I except the money to be in my account shortly.” She slammed the car door shut before Mycroft could respond.

 -

“Sherlock?” called Joan up the stairs.

“She’s out,” said Mrs Hudson, from her doorway. “Please keep it down.”

“Sorry,” she said, and tiptoed as best she could up the rest of the stairs. Sherlock wasn’t out, Sherlock was lying on the couch under a light, her jacket off and the top few buttons undone, exposing more cleavage than was decent and more than Joan remembered she had. But then, Sherlock was less scrawny than she had been. Slender, still, but she had been filled out with wiry muscle and a healthy layer of fat.

“You texted?”

“Yes. On my desk, there is a number. I want you to send a message.”

“I met Mycroft,” said Joan, stepping over to Sherlock’s desk without questioning her.

“Oh?”

“He’s paying me to spy on you.” Sherlock smiled. “Thought we could split it.”

Sherlock tapped her fingers against the crook of her elbow, feeling calmer simply for having Joan in the room.

“I did miss having you around. Have you got the number?”

“Is this the number for the dead woman? Why do you have her number?” she asked, with a raised eyebrow, typing the number into her phone nonetheless. “I presumed you hadn’t turned into a killer since I saw you last, do I have to revisit that?”

“Why presume that at all? Any number of things could have happened since I saw you last. I could be completely different to who I used to be.”

“But you’re not, and I’m not, and I think we’ve both been through quite a bit more than we’d like the world to know. What do you want me to send?”

Sherlock told her, stepped on and over the coffee table, and pulled a very pink suitcase off a chair.

“I’m not the murderer.” Joan eyed the suitcase. It was the same shade as the dead woman’s jacket.

“Donovan thinks you are. Or, at least, a murderer.”

“Yes, I’ve always been very disappointed in Sallys. Not met one who was pleasant yet.”

“I had a supply officer called Sally. That was his surname. Arsehole of a man.”

“Have you sent it?”

“Yes.” Looking at the phone in her hand as if for the first time, Joan frowned. “Why did I send a text for you when you could have just gotten up and done it yourself?”

“The victim’s phone is missing, which means, you just texted the killer.”

“Oh. Excellent. Very good.” Sherlock was buttoning up her shirt and pulling on her jacket and coat. “Are we going out?”

“Yes. Come on.”

“Why would I come with you?”

“It’s Friday.” There was a dangerous light to Sherlock’s eyes. “Hungry?”

 -

They sat down at a cafe where a man in a suit greeted Sherlock by name and with a huge grin. He hung their coats up for them.

“I’ll get a candle for the table, it’s more romantic,” he said. Joan felt that she was back in high school, her knee brushing Sherlock’s beneath the table, wanting something she couldn’t have. She couldn’t remember when she’d started wanting again. Sherlock’s face gave no trace of acknowledging anything Joan was thinking, so she swallowed, and shoved those thoughts away. Sherlock was doubtless still as damaged, still as closed-off as she had been during school, and Joan wasn’t much better. There would be no point trying.

“How are things?”

“Pardon?” Sherlock was staring intently out of the window, her shirt too tight across her chest so the buttons pulled apart slightly.

“Mycroft, parents, friends, girlfriends..?”

“I’ve no friends, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Oh,” said Joan, fumbling for the correct response to that. “Still too busy?” Sherlock afforded her a short, quizzical look.

“Yes,” she said, slowly. “Busy.”

Sherlock leaned forward, towards the window.

“A taxi. Come on, Joan.”

When Joan had first seen Sherlock, so many years ago, she’d decided that she was scrawny, weak, unable to do much that didn’t involve sitting in a library rifling through paper. Somewhere, that had changed. Joan had been out of action for a time - the injured leg had done its work - but Sherlock leaped from rooftop to rooftop with ease. 


	4. Chapter 4

“Where the hell did you learn to run so fast?”

Sherlock stared at Joan, who was leaning against the wall, her cheeks flushed and red. Her smile sent a thrill through Sherlock, that she’d made someone happy, that Joan’s smile was all her doing.

“I’ve always been able to do that. I just got better at it.” Joan flexed the fingers of her right hand, marvelling that they did not feel empty without the cane.

“Sherlock, what’s happened, what have you done?” Mrs Hudson’s face was twisted with worry.

“Pardon?”

“There are men, in your room!”Sherlock’s face went from humour to anger in a single blink, and Sherlock ran up the stairs. Pounding after her, Joan afforded herself a moment to glory in the freedom with which her legs moved.  

“Lestrade, what is this?”

“You’re withholding evidence, and knew you wouldn’t just give it up.” He had a cocky grin on his stupid handsome face.

“Oh, take it, it’s only interesting because of what it was already missing.” Anderson sneered.

“That’s what you say.”

Sherlock ignored him.

“You can’t just break into my flat.”

“Call it a drugs bust, then.” Joan snorted.

“Drugs? Here, in Sherlock’s things? Seriously?” Sherlock’s face was suddenly tight.

“Joan, don’t.”

“I mean, come on. Have you met her?”

“Joan, shut up.”

Joan whirled away from Lestrade. Sherlock’s eyes were agonising to meet as Joan realised.

“Please,” said Sherlock, and Sherlock never begged.

“Oh.”

Mandel had been right. All those years ago. Those scars on her arms, they weren’t from chemo or any other illness. She felt herself grow cold, and angry, and she balled her fists, digging her nails into her palms. She wanted a gun again, to protect her, to make everyone leave.

“Are these human eyes?” asked Donovan, then, coming out of the kitchen. “They were in the microwave.” Joan blinked at that, breathing in and forcing herself to relax. Whatever had happened was in the past, and Sherlock was here, right now, needing her still.

“You said the violin would be the worst part of living with you. And I thought the cat was bad.” She forced her voice to be mild, as though it she were used to this kind of thing.

“The cat?” asked Lestrade. “She has a cat?”

“No.”

“What are you doing here?” yelled Sherlock, interrupting them.

“You can’t just go off on your own, this is my case.” Sherlock turned and stepped up close to Lestrade, using her height to her full advantage.

“You’re the kid in the sandbox who’s annoyed because I took away his toys.”

“If you’re the bully who stole them, then yes. So I’m here going to get you for drug possession, unless you let me back in.”

“I don’t have anything. There’s nothing here.”

“In the whole flat?” asked Donovan, with her eyebrows raised.

“Stop it,” growled Joan, focusing on not punching her.

“I don’t even smoke anymore.” Joan was surprised at that. “I have cases, now, I don’t need it,” she added.

“And no more Shakespeare, I suppose.” Lestrade looked between them, confused.

“I’m sorry, is there something I’m missing between you two? Are you her girlfriend?” His fingers waved between them, accusatory.

“We went to school together.”

“Sherlock, your taxi’s here,” said Mrs Hudson, peering in from the doorway, still in the same dress she’d been wearing earlier that afternoon, when Joan had met her. Surely it had been days, weeks, even, since that had happened, not mere hours.

“What, and you’re still here?” asked Donovan, to Joan. Joan opened her mouth to yell at her, tired of Sally Donovan, tired of all the Sallys, when Lestrade broke in, finally.

“What do you know, Sherlock?”

“You said we’d find the suitcase in the hands of the killer. And here we are, at your flat, with the case.”

“Shut up, Anderson,” snapped Sherlock.

“Psychopath,” he sneered. Joan stiffened.

“Sherlock, your taxi!”

“I am not a psychopath, I am a highly functioning sociopath,” hissed Sherlock, her eyes on no one, her fingers digging into her scalp.

“Sherlock!”

“I didn’t order a taxi, Mrs Hudson! Go back downstairs!” She spun in the middle of the room, hands pressing against her face, overwhelmed by everything and on the edge of understanding. “Why would she give a damn about her dead daughter in her final hours, why would she write her name?”

“She was dying,” said Anderson.

“Of course,” said Sherlock with a breath of realisation, ignoring them all. And then she rushed off downstairs, and Anderson and Donovan stared at Lestrade, who stared at Joan, who stared at the ticking marker on the computer as it slowly moved away. 


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock pulled her hair free and let it fall loose down over her shoulders, and kicked off her shoes. She realised, as she flopped down onto the couch, that this was the first time since she and Mycroft had moved to separate houses that she had another person to watch her go through the rhythms of relaxing after a case. The realisation filled her with a warm, unfamiliar glow.

Joan sat in Sherlock’s armchair, admiring herself, admiring her hands. They were remarkably steady.

“You shot someone for me.”

“I didn’t know you enjoyed stating the obvious.”

“I don’t. I’m not.” Sherlock twisted, and stared right at Joan. “You haven’t seen me for a dozen years, but you’d shoot someone for me?” She didn’t know what to make of it.

“You know, you could thank me.”

“Thank you, Dr Watson.” Sherlock bent her body so she could peel off her socks. Her feet were long and pale, her nails unpainted. Joan watched, and then shook her head.

“Drugs, then? That was your problem during high school?” Sherlock casually flicked her socks in the vague direction of the hallway, where she could pick them up on her way to bed.

“And after. I’d really rather not talk about it.”

“That’s why Mycroft wanted me to keep an eye on you. Why everyone at school was so fucking concerned. Why you went ape-shit at Mandel.”

“It’s an old and tired story, can we please drop it?” snapped Sherlock, more harshly than she meant to.

“Of course,” said Joan, unfazed, confusing Sherlock. People didn’t just drop things, people pushed and pushed. But then, people didn’t save the life of near-strangers. Joan was different. She always had been.

Sherlock hadn’t felt guilty about disappearing from Joan’s life in a very long time. She had given up on the emotion as useless and unresolvable. Except that Joan was here, again, and it could be resolved, and Joan could be relearned.

“Why are you back?”

“Pardon?”

“Why are you here? Why did you shoot someone for me?” Joan looked at her, and Sherlock could see nothing but open honest trust in her eyes. But then she blinked and it was abruptly gone.

“I’ve got nothing better going on than watching you fumble about,” she said with a self depreciating sneer.

Over the years, Joan had sometimes wondered what she’d do if she ran into Sherlock again. Sometimes, she imagined them reuniting with frantic kisses; other times Joan would tell herself all the things she wanted to yell at Sherlock, how she’d abandoned her and how alone she’d felt with her gone. There didn’t seem to be much point attempting to create either fantasy, though, and so she said, “Do you want some tea?”

“Don’t you want to sleep?” Joan looked over at her, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. She didn’t sleep much anymore. “Oh. Right. Sorry. Did you want to catch up?”

“Pardon?” called Joan, walking into the kitchen. She didn’t know where the tea was, but started opening cupboards, searching. Sherlock rolled upright and pulled her laptop towards her, her long fingers flashing over the keys to log in as she spoke.

“When people run into old friends they like to catch up. Do you want to catch up with me?”

Joan came and stood in the doorway to the kitchen.

“Doctor. Army. Shot. That’s it, that’s me. And you are, detective, addict, and still an arsehole.”

 “If you save someone’s life you shouldn’t call them an arsehole.” Joan shrugged.

“It’s always worked for me before,” Sherlock allowed the corner of her mouth to quirk upwards in a smile, and Joan felt a familiar jolt run through her at the sight. The whistling kettle came to her rescue, and she turned back into the kitchen. “Do you take your tea the same way?”

“Yes.”

Joan dropped two heaped spoonfuls of sugar into the tea, watching the milk cloud up in her own cup.

“You don’t care to know anything at all?” Joan was too calm for Sherlock’s comfort, too easy in reappearing in her life. Only Mycroft was so blasé around her.

There was a spare space on the table in front of Sherlock, who was sitting, legs drawn up under her, laptop balanced precariously. Joan put the tea down in front of her and sat down in Sherlock’s old armchair, deciding that, since Sherlock appeared to prefer the couch, it would be hers.

“We don’t need to have a big sit-down about it,” said Joan. “I’m sure I’ll find out enough sooner or later, and you’ve probably deduced everything important already.” Sherlock watched her over the rim of her mug, trying to read her and not coming up with anything except the facts she already knew.

“You’re different than I remember.”

“Unsurprising. I helped invade Afghanistan. That kind of thing changes a girl.” Sherlock smiled, and it felt strange, and nice, to be doing that with a person rather than at them.

“But still, somehow, the same. I suppose the essence of a person doesn’t change no matter what,” mused Sherlock. Joan chuckled.

“I take it you’re still rubbish at people.”

“Why would you presume that?” Joan was about to point out how uncertain Sherlock appeared the moment the case was over. With only another human in the room to focus on, Sherlock seemed ill at ease.

“Sarah was very much not pleased to meet me,” said Joan instead, hands tentatively circled around the heat of the mug of tea.

“Oh. _Oh_. When she asked if I wanted to have coffee, that was meant as a date.”

“I’ll take that as a yes to being still rubbish.”

“Some facts of human nature are unchangeable,” repeated Sherlock with more confidence. Sarah was a nice girl, she understood rationality and reasoning, and wasn’t completely idiotic. For a moment Sherlock mused over saying yes, but then Joan shifted in her seat and Sherlock was reminded she wasn’t alone. Sherlock didn’t date, but agreeing to Sarah while Joan was in her life seemed unthinkable.

They sipped at their tea in amicable silence, Sherlock’s mind buzzing. A question was burning in her brain, and she let it spill out before she over thought and buried it.

“Are you still interested?”

“Pardon?” The tea burned Joan’s tongue in her surprise.

“In me, I mean. Are you still interested in me?”

Joan kept her eyes on her tea so she didn’t have to look up.

“Perhaps. I’ve not exactly had time to consider it.”

“I want you to know,” said Sherlock hesitantly, because she didn’t know how much her life was about to change, now that Joan was in it again, “I consider myself married to my work.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want you expecting something of me.”

“It’s fine, Sherlock.” Sherlock’s face was still twisted in worry. “Whatever it is, it’s all fine,” she emphasised. It really was. She’d done it before, she’d do it again.

“I don’t think I could cope with that kind of thing, anyway, right now.”

She was too fragile yet for the kind of mess relationships inevitably dragged up with them. Having a friend would be alien enough.

“Good,” said Sherlock. “Great.” They drank their tea, calmly, and Sherlock fell into reading. After a while, Joan made her way upstairs to her room.

 -

She woke from the throes of a nightmare to a soft hand on her scarred shoulder. She jolted and twisted in fear.

“It’s just me,” whispered Sherlock, and Joan relaxed back onto the sheets.

“Can you turn on the light?” There was a flick and a buzz, lighting the bare room in a soft yellow glow. Sherlock was sitting on the bed near her feet.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m used to them.”

“I guessed you would be.”

Joan watched her.

“Is this what it’s going to be?” she blurted.

“If you want.”

“That would be,” she remembered Sherlock curled around her in bed, remembered her breathing against her ear, of her sighs as she rolled over in her sleep. “I’m not sure.”

“I have my room,” said Sherlock, reading her hesitation. “But when you have nightmares, I can be here for you.”

Joan considered. If it weren’t Sherlock, she’d figure it to be a kind of come-on, but because it was Sherlock she knew it wasn’t anything except what she was saying: comfort through the nightmares.

“I would like that.”

“Do you want me to stay?”

“Will you sleep?”

“No. But I can stay.” Joan rolled back into the pillow and hugged it to her.

“Leave the light on, then, read a book.”

“Okay.”

When she woke from a dreamless sleep, Sherlock was gone but the duvet on the other side of the bed was still crinkled from where she had been. Joan set about moving what few things she had into the flat. 


	6. Chapter 6

Living with Sherlock was strange, and, with her leg that was, despite Sherlock’s claims, still poorly, and her health, which was still recovering from fever, Joan left the house but rarely. At first, Sherlock would politely request the sitting room be empty for the visits of the strangers who came calling, but after a time Joan stopped hiding away in her bedroom and instead tapped away on Sherlock’s laptop, recording the meetings. Sherlock found her indispensible, apparently.

“I thought it was just you,” said a young woman, sitting nervously perched on the couch and flicking her eyes between Sherlock and Joan.

“I found it necessary to get an assistant,” said Sherlock, smoothly. “Don’t worry, she’s not about to blab your story to anyone, I merely find it useful to have notes taken down in case I miss something.”

Joan dutifully recorded the conversations on the laptop. Sherlock listened, and then sat while Joan refilled the client’s cup with tea, or coffee, offering more biscuits, and generally trying to keep them calm. Sherlock’s deductions most often did not give a happy ending. It did not often take very long, though on occasion Sherlock would send the client away and tell them to return later so she had more time to figure it out. Once solved, Sherlock would close the door politely behind the client while Joan saved the file into Sherlock’s index.

Information on every case and every person Sherlock had ever taken an interest in was there. It allowed her to keep her brain clear for new information, she said, giving her the freedom to forget things that were not currently important, but keeping them on hand in case one day it was. Sherlock had allowed her to browse through the index, and it was both a relief and a disappointment to find there was no file on her. Either there never had been one, or Sherlock had deleted it when they had become roommates.  

 -

After a time, Joan decided that she was fit enough to work, and got a job at the hospital.

“Why do you need a job?” demanded Sherlock. “You’re perfectly happy helping me out.”

“Only when you stick around at home, I don’t enjoy running around Melbourne at all hours to find a missing dog.”

“That dog was vital to the case!”

“To a mystery about which wife was sleeping with which husband,” sighed Joan. 

In the end she convinced Sherlock that it was for the best, since the job was at the hospital and it could come in handy to know someone there. Sherlock relented, despite bitter mumblings about losing her, which Joan cheerfully ignored.

 -

There was a cute nurse at the hospital, and a young male student finishing off his nursing placement. Joan spent her hours working eying them both. As a soldier she’d grown her hair and dated men. It was easier that way. Her colleagues were attractive, but she didn’t make a move.

Sherlock was at home, and Sherlock needed her.

Sherlock, who would disappear for hours and return either bloodied and bleeding, or full of emotion for a soloist at the orchestra.

Sherlock, who drew her from nightmares calmly, unfazed by the wild look in Joan’s eyes.

Sherlock, who didn’t know that the earth went round the sun.

“I was at school with you! You once knew who Othello was and read about Iago destroying his life!”

“Who is Iago? How is that important?”

“I don’t know! Maybe one day you’ll have a case where a man kills his wife because his best friend tells him that his wife is having an affair?”

“And how the hell does Othello factor into that?”

Lestrade watched them bicker at each other until he kicked them out of his office. There weren’t any cases, and Sherlock was bored.

Joan was keeping an eye on her, and Mycroft had paid her a small sum of money, only enough to cover the groceries for the week. Joan had rung to complain, and he’d informed her that, since Sherlock was aware of the deal it was now off.

“Well, if something happens you won’t hear about it from me!” yelled Joan, missing actual phones where she could slam them down. Touch screens didn’t have the same release of anger attached to them.

But then she got a job, and Sherlock got a case, and money was less important.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Index is one of many things I wish BBC Sherlock had retained. Deleting information is all good and well, but surely it's more efficient to keep a record of said information rather than fumbling about trying to relearn something if it becomes relevant again.


	7. Chapter 7

Joan had always drunk a lot of tea. Even in Afghanistan she’d managed to get some kind of brew at least every once in a while. To Joan, the constant whistle of the kettle was a simple part of her life, something comforting and stable, but to Sherlock, it was noise, a distraction, something that was altogether bad.

Sherlock looked up from her laptop in annoyance as Joan bounced down the stairs from her room at the shrill call of the boiling water.

“You drink too much tea,” said Sherlock. It was the third time the kettle had made that noise, and it was only midday. “Did you always drink this much tea?”

“Twelve cups a day every day since I was four,” quipped Joan as she went through the process of pulling a mug down from the shelf and finding a teabag. Sherlock narrowed her eyes.

“You’re lying.”

“Joking, Sherlock. I’m making a joke.”

“Oh.”

“Do you want a cup?”

“Thank you, I’m fine.”

Joan had stopped moving.

“What’s wrong?”

“We’re out of tea.”

“Have some Milo.”

“Milo isn’t tea.”

“You like the caffeine? There’s some energy drinks in the fridge, I was planning to use them in an experiment but go ahead. Or there’s coffee, if you want something hot.”

“No, Sherlock. I like tea.” Joan sat down to pull on her shoes.

“What are you doing?”

“Going to buy more.”

“Stay here, I’ll get some.”

Joan stared at her.

“Sorry? Do you want run that by me again?”

“I’ve been trying to figure this case out for hours. A stroll in the fresh air will do me good.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“Don’t be silly. You’ll talk, or think, and it will distract me.”

Joan was not one to stand in the way of Sherlock doing something, especially not something as mundane as buying tea, and so she put some music to play on her laptop and sorted through laundry while she waited. There was a gold-sequinned skirt she didn’t recognise, and, trying in vain to imagine Sherlock wearing the thing, she placed it with the rest of her clothes on the corner of Sherlock’s bed, mouthing along to Florence and the Machine.

Several hours passed, and Sherlock did not return with tea. Joan ground her teeth, annoyed, since in that time she could have wandered down to the Coles on the corner, come back and been on her second cup of the afternoon. She had Milo instead, but it didn’t help her focus on the latest medical journals in quite the same way.

At dinner, she texted.

_Where are you?_

_Got a case. Be back late. SH_

_You better have my tea._

Sighing at the lack of response, Joan went down to the corner pizzeria for dinner, and then back to the flat to watch a movie. Her hand felt empty without her customary cup of tea. There was no doubt in Joan’s mind that Sherlock had completely forgotten her promise to buy some.

So, in the morning when Joan came into the kitchen to make her customary two pieces of toast with jam, she was completely unprepared for the spectacle that awaited her.

Joan had gotten used to the benches being crowded with Sherlock’s things, with only a corner allowed for the kettle and toaster, and perhaps one burner on the stove available. An entire section of bench had been cleared off sometime during the night, and on it sat a large, pretty teapot and a stack of teacups, complete with saucers. Next to that was a stack of round, nondescript black tins. Joan picked one up and opened it curiously. Instantly, the scent of strawberries and raspberries wafted over her. The next tine smelled of cinnamon, and the one under that, mint. There were more than a dozen tins, all of them different and all of them smelling delightful.

“Do you like them?” asked Sherlock from the doorway. She looked especially pleased with herself.

“What is it?”

“It’s tea,” she said, with a mix of withering distain and confusion in her face, as though she weren’t sure if she’d done the wrong thing but wanted to be indignant about it anyway.

“All of this?”

“I went to T2,” she said. “That tea shop down on Bourke Street.”

“I know where it is,” said Joan, though she’d only ever wandered through there. Teabags from Coles were good enough for her, and within her price range. She’d seen their teapots, and had known that with her soldier’s income it would be a long time till she could afford buying to buy something simply because it was pretty. “You bought me all of these?”

“You said you like tea.”

“Yes, but,” Joan stared at the boxes, utterly bewildered. Her choices had always been between Earl Grey and English Breakfast, not nameless boxes that smelled divine. Surely they all needed fancy infusers and particular times in water of specific temperatures. “I’m not fussy. You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know. That’s what friends do. Right?” she added, tentatively. Joan smiled at her.

“Yes. That’s what friends do. Do you want a cup?”

“The second one from the left is my favourite.” Joan narrowed her eyes at her. “The girl in the shop let me taste some. She was very accommodating, and I was not at all unpleasant.”

Joan flipped the switch on the kettle and took down two of her new teacups.

“Thank you, Sherlock. This is,” she surveyed her new collection of tea. “Brilliant.”

 -

Time passed.

Joan got nightmares a little less often, and was almost sad to not be woken during the night to Sherlock’s face bending over her.

Crimes happened, and were solved. Joan was nearly exploded by one Professor Jennifer Moriarty. There was a flu epidemic and Joan pricked her finger with a needle in the rush of patients.

Sherlock was frustrating. She’d always been frustrating, but it was also surprisingly easy.

Sherlock didn’t needlessly make conversation, and they would exist for days at a time saying little more than what few words were needed to sort out food and the like. Other times, Sherlock wouldn’t shut up, but all of what she said was interesting, and she was always grateful, if surprised, when Joan had an opinion to share.

Occasionally, when Joan settled down to watch TV on her laptop, Sherlock would sit on the couch next to her and pretend to read a book. Other times, she didn’t pretend at all, and, once, Joan had woken stiff and sore to find Sherlock curled, asleep, on the other end of the couch, laptop on the coffee table battery long dead.

No matter how the week had been, they went out to dinner on Friday nights, always. Most often their meal was disturbed by a call from Lestrade, or some realisation Sherlock had suddenly about a case. Occasionally they made it to dessert. Once, they’d just hailed a cab when the phone call came.

Joan followed. She kept Sherlock in check. She made sure the police treated her kindly and tapped on Sherlock’s arm warningly if she said something unthoughtful.

She kept her distance, and tried not to stare too much when her flatmate wandered about in what little passed for pyjamas.

They were friends, nothing more, but never ‘just’ friends. With Sherlock, nothing could be belittled to ‘just’. Somehow, it worked.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For ChelseaLoowho, who wanted more Sarah, [Pinlie](../../../users/Pinlie/pseuds/Pinlie), who wanted more Sherlock-perspective, and Sarah, on whom Sarah is not based at all but who finds pipetting infinitely dull (as do we all).

“I’m sorry about Jenny,” said Sarah. Sherlock looked at her with surprise, since no words had been spoken in the four hours they’d been in the lab together. The scales beeped at her impatiently. 

“Yes, yes,” she muttered at it, and finished scraping the fine, white powder onto  smooth glass dish until the scales beeped at her again to say the amount she wanted was there.

“It’s not your fault. Even _I_ didn’t pick up that she was a psychopathic murderer hell bent on blowing up Joan.”

“Was that meant to be comforting?” Sherlock tipped the powder into a beaker of fluid and dropped in a stir bar, putting the beaker on top of the magnetic stirrer and flicking the switch. It gave a slight buzz as it came to life, and Sherlock made a note to tell Sarah that a new one might be needed. Certainly, Sarah was right there and could be told immediately, but she was focusing on her own experiment. It was infinitely more dull than Sherlock’s, and it involved tremendous amounts of pipetting, but she respected that some concentration was required and important facts could be kept until a later date.

“It was. Was it?”

“Not really.”

Sherlock frowned at the beaker.

“This is dull,” she groaned. The reaction was going to be slow, even with the heat and the mixing. She checked her phone, forgetting that she never got any signal in the lab.

Joan had recovered surprisingly well from her run-in with Moriarty, and Sherlock had been a little disappointed that nightmares had been scarcely enough to demand her attention.

“I’m going to get a coffee and check the mortuary,” she decided out loud.

“There’s nothing interesting.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Smashed in head from a car accident that was only slightly suspect, one man shot in the chest by his own gun-”

“Oh!” said Sherlock, excited. Sarah shook her head.

“It was an illegal gun, but he was cleaning it. Nothing exciting.”

“Does someone have blood splatter analysis to do? I could do with the upper body workout.” Sarah chuckled.

“After last time? I don’t think they want you near that area ever again.”

In an attempt to deduce which weapon had killed a woman and the surrounding story, Sherlock had spent an afternoon with paint and paper and knives, terrifying most everyone with the glee she had put into figuring it out. What had sealed the deal was one of the forensics who had brought his young daughter in to show her his office, carefully cleared of violent photographs. Sherlock had stepped out of the room, dripping red and grinning like a maniac, one knife held triumphantly in the air.

“Poo,” she said, eloquently.

“I’ll come with you for a coffee, though. This is becoming tedious.”

“You should leave the pipetting to the lackeys,” said Sherlock, pulling both hers and Sarah’s coats down from the hook by the door.

“I am the lackey, and you leave your pipetting to me.”

“It’s dull.”

“If you’d let me play my music it would be quite a bit less dull. When you’re not here it’s a regular club.”

“I hate clubbing.”

“Really? I’m very surprised by that statement.” She looked Sherlock dead in the eye, daring her to tell her off for the sarcasm. Sherlock chuckled and held the door open for her. The shorter woman ducked under her arm.

“Where are we going for coffee?”

“There’s a cafe a couple streets away. You don’t mind the walk, do you?” asked Sherlock.

She certainly would never have asked Joan, who followed Sherlock most anywhere, trusting her completely. Sherlock never questioned that trust, but she didn’t expect it from anyone else, but after Moriarty she suspected that she should treat Sarah with a little more care than she usually did. Since she never gave a second thought to the comfort of her sometimes co-worker, it was strange to suddenly force herself to consider her.

“Nothing like stretching my legs.”

The air was cold, and Sherlock pulled her scarf up and pushed her hair more firmly around her neck.

She had no small-talk to offer, but conscious that Joan would occasionally frown at her treatment of Sarah she fumbled for something to fill the silence. Since pipetting did not thrill her, she went for the only other recent topic of conversation.

“Going to try dating again?”

“Perhaps,” Sarah gave a humourless laugh, “it’s not as though I could get much worse than Jenny. But probably not.”

Sherlock pretended she was Joan, and asked, “She put you off?”

“Not that,” said Sarah, with a sidelong glance at Sherlock. “But,” she paused, and decided to speak frankly. “You’re not interested in me, but, god knows why, I’m interested in you.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Did you just apologise?” Sherlock carefully avoided meeting her gaze, and focused on crossing the road.

“Yes.”

“You never apologise, except to Joan.” Sarah frowned. “It’s always her, it’s always going to be her, and never me.”

“We’re not together,” said Sherlock. People made assumptions, but surely Sarah at least could see the truth of the matter.

“Maybe you’re not having sex, maybe you don’t even kiss, but you’re together. It’s you and her. Everyone else can see it, except for you. Even she knows you’re a couple. One of the guys at the hospital was hitting on her, and she turned him down by telling him that she’s taken.”

“But,” Sherlock paused. Whenever someone suggested they were a couple she never corrected them because it was simply easier, and it was nice to be part of something. People looked at her differently when they thought someone wanted to keep her in their life. They treated her with a little more kindness, which translated to easier gathering of information, faster solving of cases. “We’re not together,” she repeated uselessly.

“For someone who claims to know so much, you know nothing about actual people.”

“Joan says that.”

Sarah looked over at her. Sherlock was walking with a forlorn look on her face.

“Do you want to be with her?”

“I don’t,” she began, and immediately floundered. She never paused so often in speech as when she was trying to talk about emotions. There was so much Joan didn’t know, about her past, about Hartswood and the life Sherlock used to lead. “I am not sure I want a conventional relationship,” she said, stiffly.

She wasn’t sure if she wanted anything, and she wasn’t sure if Joan did, or, if she did, what that would entail. It was much easier to ignore the entire concept.

“You aren’t a conventional person.” Sherlock stopped at the cafe she had wanted to visit, primarily because there was a person there who worked there who had come up twice as a bystander to two unrelated cases, and Sherlock only believed in coincidence after a thorough investigation.

It was a relief to escape the conversation to investigate and deduce. She watched her suspect, the young man with a tattoo snaking out of the round collar of his shirt. It wouldn’t have been visible if he was wearing a dress shirt working an office job. Perhaps that was intentional. His hands shook and his grin was slightly manic, but Sherlock could read nothing from him except the blatantly obvious: university drop-out, long-term girlfriend but he occasionally swung the other way. He enjoyed his work, occasionally painted, could play the guitar but wasn’t serious. No doubt he would aimlessly wander his way to a mundane desk job to support his soon-to-be wife.

He took her money cheerfully and promised that their coffee would be ready in a jiffy. Sherlock gave him a withering glare for the phrase and the fact that he wasn’t a suspect in any crime she could think of, and retreated to the side to wait with Sarah.

“I’m going to Bali,” said Sarah, after a moment. “With my sister.”

“You have a sister?”

“You didn’t know that already?”

No, thought Sherlock, because Sarah wasn’t important enough to remember everything about. She knew everything about Joan, from the way she hung her socks to what she looked like when she slept, but she only knew enough about Sarah to step around her in the laboratory and order coffee just how she liked it.

“How long for?”

“Two weeks.”

“Who’ll take care of the lab?”

Their coffees were made and Sherlock sneered at the man’s overly caffeinated smile as she took them.

“There are people other than me who work there.”

“Who?” Sarah rolled her eyes.

“The funny man with the glasses, and the ginger.” Sherlock recalled faceless bodies moving through the laboratory, but they’d blended into the background long ago. “Of course, if they’re not Joan or dead, you don’t notice them.”

“I notice you.”

“Only inasmuch as I’m useful to you. Granted, a little more after Jennifer. I don’t blame you. I’m just an ordinary person.” She didn’t sound bitter, merely sad, and not for herself.

Sherlock didn’t try protesting the pity.

She checked all the bodies in the mortuary, and discovered that Sarah had been right. There was nothing interesting there. She texted Joan with nothing in particular, and got no response. Feeling morose, she went back downstairs to the gently swirling liquid in the beaker and Sarah’s clicking pipette. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm off to travel the world! I hope your lives are pleasant while I am away!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! It was fantastic. If tumblr is your thing I am [ojirawel](http://ojirawel.tumblr.com/tagged/snowys-trip); I posted some pictures and the like.

Joan had to work, so Sherlock’s side was empty. The dead body was lying in dust, and the stench of heroin was strong in the air.

The apparent overdose was not why Sherlock had been invited to join them. It was the safe.

Sherlock enjoyed unlocking safes, and, when other skilled officers were unavailable was generally eager to assist the force. This one had clearly been tampered with, but the person who had called the crime in claimed to have startled the thief, a Caucasian man of average height with no distinguishing features, although the sketch artist had not yet sat with the woman. The two officers began to bicker amongst themselves, and where normally Sherlock would have offered an opinion she instead rifled through one of her pockets for a hanky. Covering her nose, she moved past the body and the heroin.

She was clean, and had been clean for over two years. Sherlock was a great believer in herself, but she also prided herself in never being wrong, and it would be wrong to overestimate her ability to cope with the smell. She could feel it permeate her skin.

The metal of the safe was cool on her fingertips, and she leaned into the task as though it were an old lover welcoming her home with comforting arms.

 

 -

 

The door slammed shut at a gust of wind and Joan tossed her bag and unused umbrella down onto the couch. Sherlock was lying back in her armchair. Thinking her to be asleep, Joan made herself a sandwich and sat down on the couch, setting the laptop on the coffee table with the intention on catching up on some TV.

“What are you watching?” Joan didn’t so much as glance over at the prone body.

“I was thinking _The Mentalist_.”

“Oh, please, don’t. Put one of your insufferable sci-fi shows on.”

“You like criminal mysteries. And Simon Baker is an attractive man.”

“It’s terrible, and I don’t like men.” Joan laughed.

“I think you just don’t like it because he claims to do what you do.”

“Except he does it _wrong_ ,” hissed Sherlock. The banter eased her, and she felt the fight all over her body to find something, anything, to give her that buzz, ebb slowly away.

“Fine, then, what about _House_? You can relate to the fine doctor, I’ll relate to Wilson, and we can all have a comfortable evening.” She giggled at Sherlock’s theatrical groan.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“No, I like you too much.” “How was your day?”

Sherlock breathed in, carefully, settling herself. She hated admitting weakness, even to Joan.

“Not bad. There was a murder.”

“Of course,” said Joan, mildly. Sherlock decided Joan did not need to know about the heroin.

“I have told you about Lestrade and Gregson, yes?”

“I’ve met them, but you haven’t exactly told me about them.”

“They’re always at each other’s throats, sometimes it’s friendly and sometimes it’s not. Once they both called me to a case telling me not to tell the other, trying to beat each other to a lead,” her eyes were momentarily bright with the memory, “and today wasn’t much different. Lestrade called me, and they were both baffled. So I poked around, and while they did that they started arguing about what some of the clues meant, and of course, when they get arguing I can’t get a word in edgewise.”

“I can imagine,” said Joan dryly, as though she’d never had the same difficulty with Sherlock.

“So I just wandered outside and called my own, private detective force,” she paused at the confusion on Joan’s face, “by which I mean the homeless of the streets of Melbourne.”

“Ah, yes, sorry. Go on.”

“I promised them all some money, and got the answers within twenty minutes. The inspectors were still arguing, so I walked in there, slammed a door to get their attention, told them what’s what and stalked out.” She laughed heartily. “You should have seen the looks on their faces. I solved it within that time, and they were still trying to trump the other about the meaning of a scratched out face in a photograph. Have I ever told you how I love my job?”

“Only said that you’re married to it,” said Joan with a grin.

Sherlock came to sit next to Joan, stepping on the coffee table to cross the room. She sat slightly too close to Joan, and leaned over her to peer at the laptop screen.

“Put on _Farscape_ , I don’t mind that one.”

“You just like Virginia Hey.”

“Claudia Black, please. I like my women to not be blue.” Sherlock ran a hand through her own thick head of messy hair. “And not bald.”

For an evening with Sherlock, it was exceptionally normal. There were no cases, no clients, and although Sherlock stopped watching after a time to read a book, she sat on the couch next to Joan the entire evening, their bodies almost but not quite touching. Joan felt that she could do this for the rest of time, if it meant Sherlock was still in her life.


	10. Chapter 10

 “Joan,” said Sherlock. She shoved a notepad she took from the victim’s desk at Joan.

“What?”

“Take notes.” Joan took a pen from the desk, ignoring the look she was getting from Lestrade. Neither implement was evidence.

“I thought you could remember everything,” said Joan, dutifully marking down the distance the body was from the wall and the angle her hand had fallen at. There was blood splatter and she wrote down those descriptions too. “And there’s cameras.”

“My phone is broken, remember?”

Sherlock hadn’t explained that story yet, but she was working on transferring the data and finding a new phone she trusted.

“I have a phone.”

“But it’s your phone,” said Sherlock. “Which means, when I most need it, you’ll have it.”

Joan flipped to the next page and kept noting down everything Sherlock barked at her.

It was only several hours later, waiting for chips at a corner shop for Joan’s dinner, that Sherlock asked to see the paper.

“Forget something, did you?” Sherlock just sneered at her as Joan chuckled and gnawed on a corner of her Golden Gaytime. Probably it was a little wintery to be eating the ice cream, but the shop was warm and the wait could be long.

“What is this?” asked Sherlock, holding the paper out to her. Joan squinted at her writing.

“Couch.”

“I thought it said blood.”

“No, that says blood,” said Joan, indicating at a squiggle further down the page.

“Your writing is absolutely shocking.”

“I am a doctor, you know.”

“You don’t have to fit the stereotype.”

“I’m eating a Golden Gaytime and I’m wearing plaid,” pointed out Joan. “Stereotypes can be fun.”

“I think ice cream on a stick is for the other side,” said Sherlock dryly. “What does this say?”

“Number 37?” called the man behind the counter. Joan waved and took the paper-wrapped package in one hand before looking at the notepad.

“Five.”

“It looks like an F.”

“That would make no sense in the context.”

“You’re never writing anything again.”

“Fix your phone, and I’ll happily keep to that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A [student-made Golden Gaytime advertisement](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cv-2Z1qrrHs) for your viewing pleasure. It's hard to have a Gaytime on your own!


	11. Chapter 11

“Is she eating?” Joan looked across the room at Sherlock, who was leaning on the kitchen table staring intently at a beaker filled with a nasty brown.

“I hope not. She’s in the kitchen.”

“Ah.” The constant state of the kitchen as a laboratory for Sherlock’s experiments did not encourage the consumption of food. Joan had forgotten that, once, and had spent half a day curled up by the toilet.

“I’m worried,” said Joan to Mycroft, who sat in some darkened room somewhere dealing with matters of state while Joan sat in 221B Baker Street hoping Sherlock wouldn’t set the kitchen on fire. Again.

It had been two months since Irene Adler.

“But she hasn’t...?” The unspoken question hung in the air between them.

“No. I’ve been careful.” Very careful.

“I can hear you!” called Sherlock. “If my brother wants to talk to me he can bloody well come over and do it himself. I don’t need him to be stealing you away at all hours to gossip.” Rolling her eyes, Joan waited for the snide comment from Mycroft.

“Is that Sherlock? Tell her to stop being a cry-baby. She hasn’t had a case in months, and I’ve got several here I’m sure she would enjoy looking at.”

“They’re all boring!”

“I presume you heard that,” said Joan, and Mycroft sighed.

“Ring me if anything changes.” The line went silent.

“He’s right, you know,” said Joan, letting her phone slip between her and the armchair. “You need to do something.”

“Shut up, I’ve nearly worked out what ratio of boot polish to detergent would get blood stains out of a carpet.”

“Why would that even matter? What kind of sane person would use boot polish?”

“What else am I going to do?” snapped Sherlock. “Play my violin? I have blisters on my fingers; that hasn’t happened since I started learning.”

“And Mrs Hudson would probably evict us,” muttered Joan, pulling the newspaper off the coffee table and loudly rustling it open.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“Nothing. Did you want to go out tonight?”

“Whatever for?” The contempt was plain in her voice.

“Oh, nothing. Just, an escape from the boot polish might be nice. Brad’s in town.”

“Brad?”

“You know, guy from high school. He moved to Perth, he’s visiting his sister or his mother or something. We’re going to catch up.”

They’d only intermittently sent each other emails, dotted with the occasional phone call. The distance between them had forced them apart. Still, when Joan had been shot she’d called him first, not her father, and definitely not Harry.

“Oh, the one who bought you food on Mondays.”

“Yes, him. You’re welcome to come.”

“You don’t want me. I’m just that psychopath who disappeared before the end of the year.”

“They won’t say anything if I ask them not to.”

“I don’t need you to fucking protect me all the time, Joan.” Sherlock was hunched over the bench, blouse tucked into her denim shorts, her forehead sweaty from the heat. Her eyes were manic.

“If you don’t want to come, it’s okay.” There was a sneer across the array of chemicals.

“And leave me here? You have no idea what I might cook up and drink down.”

“Fine,” growled Joan, “You’re coming. Go and take a shower.”

“And if I refuse?”

“I’ll bloody well strip you down and wash you myself.”

Summer had come early; it was too hot for arguments. Sherlock seemed about to say something, but instead she slammed down a bottle onto the table and stalked off to the bathroom. Joan peeled herself off the couch, exasperated. Caring for her friend was tiring, and nothing Joan did made it any easier.

Leaving the flat got her yelled at, because it meant Sherlock was bored alone, or Mycroft would call and demand to know why his little sister had been abandoned. As much as Mycroft said he didn’t bother with emotions, he certainly did enjoy making sure Sherlock was safe. At least Joan was being paid for the bother. At first, she’d felt guilty for being paid to be a friend, but then Sherlock had stopped working and she been glad for the money, to cover rent and the stress of keeping an unemployed Sherlock clean.

Brad being in town was a welcome distraction. If she was on Sherlock duty, she wasn’t able to do what little drinking she allowed herself, but at least she’d have other people to distract her.

So long as Sherlock didn’t rip off anyone’s head.

 _Oh god_ , she thought, as the shower started running. Inviting Sherlock was the stupidest thing she could have done. 


	12. Chapter 12

“They’re going to think you’re my girlfriend. You hate it when people do that.”

“Shut up, Sherlock.” Gritting her teeth, Joan resisted telling the taxi driver to turn around, or at least stop so Joan could throw her friend out. She wished she’d insisted on taking the tram instead, as a pre-emptive punishment against whatever antics Sherlock was going to throw at her.

“I’ll say something awful.” The light flicked green and the taxi jolted forward. “I’ll embarrass you.”

“Do you want to go home and worry over how many one-cent pieces can be hidden inside a cut out book again? Or what happens when you mix sheep eyes with Windex? Because I thought you said you were bored, and I’m sick of sitting inside listening to you moan, so if you’re going to be an ass, you can be an ass where I have access to alcohol and I have friends who don’t have to answer to Mycroft if someone slips and breaks your nose.”

“Alright, alright,” said Sherlock, sitting back in the seat. “No need to get huffy.”

“You’ll be the death of me,” moaned Joan, rubbing at her eyes. 


	13. Chapter 13

“Joan!” called Brad, waving at her from across the room. It was a Tuesday evening, and the music was soft and the crowd easy to navigate.

“Joan, this is Liam. Liam, this is Joan, my oldest friend. And this is... Is this Sherlock?” Sherlock stretched out a hand.

“The very same.”

“You have to explain,” said Brad, shuffling over in the booth.

“I’ll let you gossip,” sneered Sherlock, “I’ll get drinks.” Joan watched her, relieved when Sherlock’s path carried her only as far as the bar. Brad leaned forward.

“What’s _that_ story?”

“Sherlock was at school with us,” began Joan, wanting to explain to Liam.

“And she very near strangled one of the guys to death. Disappeared before the year was up, it was a very big thing,” finished Brad in a rush. “What happened to her? Are you dating, now?”

“No,” she said, choosing to ignore the first question, as was only right.

“Do I detect disappointment?” Joan frowned. She’d known Brad for more than half her life, but it would be nice if he could not pick up on every little thing about her. She got enough of that already.

“She’s still the same arse she always was. I ran into her when I got home, and we were both looking for a place to live. We’re flatmates, now. And I’m kind of her PA? Perhaps? She’s a detective; I make sure she plays nice with people.”

“Has she been in the papers?” asked Liam.

“Yeah.”

“Huh. Thought I recognised her.”

Sherlock had two glasses in her hands and was walking back over.

“Look,” said Joan, leaning forward and dropping her voice, “Please don’t hate me for bringing her. Probably she’ll be a complete arse, but she’s going through a rough thing right now.” She sat back up and smiled at the beer deposited in front of her.

“Going with whiskey, tonight?”

“They didn’t have embalming fluid,” she said with a sniff. “Done talking about me?”

Joan leaned back in the booth, feigning relaxation. The heat of Sherlock’s bare leg was close to hers, and even now, frustrated as she was, it took all her willpower to keep her fingers idly stroking the condensation on her glass, and not running along Sherlock’s thigh.

“Yes, we are. Now, you two, how did you meet?”

Liam was a delight and Brad was the same sci-fi obsessed guy with a strange sense of humour and the ability to make any situation into a good one. Joan drank more than she should but less than she wanted to. Surprisingly, Sherlock was all manners, buying a round of drinks and smiling and laughing in time with everyone else. The effort must have been exhausting.

 -

“Now, that wasn’t too bad, surely.”

“Damn tedious evening.”

“Liam was lovely,” said Joan, ignoring Sherlock and unlocking their door. Sherlock kicked off her shoes and collapsed onto the couch.

“He was annoying.” Joan jabbed a finger at her.

“You’re only saying that because he’s not having an affair or secretly straight or something stupid like that.” Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh that could have been agreement.

“I was very good. Congratulate me.”

“Yes, you were. Well done on behaving like an adult for once.”

“Where’s my reward?”

“I’ll get you some iced tea, shall I?” It was late, and she was tired, but the air was still too thick and hot to sleep.

“Tea’s not going to work, I want something better.” The couch made a noise as Sherlock jumped from it to the coffee table and down onto the floor. “Something stronger.”

“You’re getting tea and you’ll like it. Play the violin.”

“I’m sick of the violin.”

“Oh my god!” yelled Joan, the relaxation from the evening instantly evaporating from her. “Sometimes I wonder if you’d be easier to be around if you just got laid every now and then!”

“And I suppose you want to do the honours!” shouted back Sherlock.

“I’d consider it a service to queen and country!” she yelled back. Her head was pounding from the heat, and the alcohol, and the anger.

The stamping in the other room ceased, and a strange calm came over the flat. Checking that the two glasses she’d picked were clean, Joan filled them with tea and added ice blocks. Carefully, she picked up both, spilling a little over the edge of one, and turned, coming face to face with Sherlock’s chest.

“Fuck, Sherlock, what do you want now?” Sherlock dropped her head, and her sea green eyes overwhelmed Joan. She scarcely noticed as Sherlock took the drinks from her hand, spilling one as she did so. The raspberry tea dripped down Joan’s bare leg.

“What?” she breathed.

“You. I want,” Sherlock’s lips were very close to hers, and Joan half closed her eyes, stretching up. “I want you.”

Joan had dreamed about this.

Every possible situation, every possible fantasy, they had all crossed Joan’s mind. She’d imagined leaning over and kissing her while Sherlock sat, curled on the couch with a laptop. Had, in sleepy, post-porn hazes, dreamed about being startled in the bathroom and the resulting awkward fall into sex. She’d watched Sherlock mutter over a dead body and wondered what Sherlock’s skin would be like to taste, how her hair would feel, if her shoulders would be as silky smooth as they looked.

Nothing compared to Sherlock’s lips, soft, slightly chapped, against hers. The bit of saliva on them, the sheer height of Sherlock as she leaned down and Joan stretched up, pulse heavy in her ears. She stepped back into the kitchen counter, trying to steady herself from the heat and the overwhelming closeness of Sherlock was too much. Sherlock’s mouth was smooth against hers, and she was certain she would fall if she didn’t cling to something.

Sherlock’s hand reached down, tentatively, and touched Joan’s waist, holding her gently. Joan pushed up, flicking her tongue along Sherlock’s lips until she opened her mouth, just a bit, and smiled against her at the deep groan Sherlock made at the touch. Cautiously she felt Sherlock’s tongue touch hers in the middle of their kiss, could feel Sherlock’s heart pounding against her chest, and the nervous way she had her hand lightly against Joan’s hip. It was foreign and brilliant and weird, and too wonderful to stop and so, when Joan pulled away, she wasn’t quite sure why she had.

“Sherlock,” she began.

“What?” Sherlock’s eyes were close to hers, her face more relaxed and calmer than Joan had ever seen.

“You’ve been drinking.”

“I’ve never kissed anyone before,” said Sherlock, a little dazed. “I didn’t know it would be like that.” Stretching forward, she tried to kiss Joan again, and Joan put her hand up.

“No. I don’t trust you. I don’t trust that you want this. You can’t do this to me and not really want it.”

“I do.”

“You’d sell your soul for a bit of crack, right now.”

“That doesn’t change right now. I want you, I’ve wanted you for a while and I didn’t properly realise until just then. I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want you, right now. Please.” Her tone was desperate, pleading, and Sherlock never begged.

Joan reached up, and kissed, putting everything into it.

There was a moan, from one of them, as their teeth collided awkwardly, then Joan grabbed Sherlock’s neck to steady herself, hanging on as she dragged Sherlock down into her, their mouths desperate against each other.

After a pause, Sherlock’s fingers dug into the soft flesh at Joan’s hip, pulling their bodies in together. Her thigh slipped between Joan’s, pushing, holding Joan firmly between Sherlock and the counter, and the sloppy kissing became easier. It was an effort for Joan to pull away, again.

“No.”

“No?”

Joan shook her head, focusing on Sherlock’s eyes, not her lips, or her flushed cheeks.

“No more. I want you to get a case, I want you to be distracted and normal, I want life to be the same as it was before, again. I can’t do this once and then be ignored when you have other toys to play with.”

“But I want this, I swear.” Joan dodged away from Sherlock’s lips.

“If this is going to happen, it is going to be for always. It will either work or I will walk out that door.”

That made Sherlock stop.

“I don’t want you gone,” she said, a sudden chill flipping her stomach over.

“I know. Neither do I. Which is why we’re going to be slow, and I’m going to go and have a shower, alone, and go to bed, alone, and we’re not going to do anything that involves more than the usual amount of touching until you have a case. I will not be another outlet for your boredom.”

“You don’t want me,” said Sherlock, and Joan could have slapped her.

“Look at me, dammit. I’ve wanted you since the moment I clapped eyes on you. But I am not going to let us fuck this up because you forget that other people have needs and emotions, okay?”

“Kiss me again, “whined Sherlock. “Just once. Once so I know it can happen again.”

Joan couldn’t say no, not again.

The kiss was quick, chaste, and Joan had to wriggle out of Sherlock’s grasp before it became more. Not trusting herself, she left the tea on the counter and fled to her bedroom.

 -

Sherlock stood in the kitchen, staring after Joan. Her lips felt strange. She tipped the ice tea back into the jug and rinsed out the glasses, not wanting to sully her mouth with the taste of something that wasn’t Joan. Her head was spinning, slightly, and she went out of the kitchen and lay down on the couch. She listened to doors opening, footsteps on the floor above, drawers opening and the final creak of Joan’s bed as she got into it.

Sherlock had kissed her. Joan, her one and only friend. Kissed her and declared intentions. Future kissing. Future things. Together. Her and Joan.

She needed a case, to make Joan happy, but it was past midnight and no one would be happy to be woken up simply to satiate her needs. Reluctantly, she went to have a shower. The water ran over her face, and her lips tingled.

She went to bed, thinking only about that kiss. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going away (again!) so I won't update for a week. I hope you think this chapter works.


	14. Chapter 14

The flat was quiet when Joan woke, which was not in itself unusual. Sherlock had taken to brooding more often since Irene Adler, and entire days had passed where communication had to be done with Joan making hand gestures and Sherlock resolutely ignoring her.

Joan wasn’t sure if she was up to facing Sherlock, and was almost glad for the quiet of the early morning, while Sherlock slept.

Joan made herself toast on the small bit of kitchen bench still clear, and checked her email. Still the flat was quiet, and by then Joan was a little disappointed. Perhaps Sherlock had realised she hadn’t wanted it at all. Perhaps it had all been a big mistake. She felt something  awful and uncomfortable settle in her gut. She checked her phone, and considered texting Sherlock, or even knocking on her bedroom door to say goodbye before she left. Not knowing if such behaviour would be acceptable, though, she did nothing.

It wasn’t until she was about to leave for work that she saw that Sherlock’s jacket had gone from its hook. She dashed downstairs and pounded on Mrs Hudson’s door.

“Mrs Hudson, have you seen Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson peered out at her.

“Keep calm. She dashed out around six this morning. Made a dreadful racket. I presumed she had a case.”

“Right,” said Joan, staring at the landlady. “Yes. Of course. Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” said Joan, fishing in her pocket for her phone. Mrs Hudson closed the door and Joan paced the little foyer at the bottom of the stairs.

“Lestrade?”

“Watson.”

“Is Sherlock there?”

“Not currently, no. Why, is something the matter?”

“Not currently as in she was there earlier?”

“Yes, she rang me this morning at some god forsaken hour and demanded I give her a case. I don’t have anything that’s very interesting, at least, not to her, but she took half a dozen anyway. She’s out there somewhere, now.”

“Oh.” Joan’s mind was racing.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes, yes, it’s fine. Thanks, Greg.” She hung up and stared at the hallway. Unusual behaviour was the only way to describe Sherlock, but this seemed stranger than usual. She should call the other Holmes.

“Mycroft,” she said into the phone.

“What has happened?”

“Nothing. Well. She’s gone out and gotten herself a case. Six, actually, if Lestrade is to be believed.”

“Six.”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“I took her out last night with some friends, and... Oh.” She blamed it on the fuzziness of alcohol-fuelled sleep that it had taken her so long to realise it.

“Watson, what happened?” demanded Mycroft.

“I got angry at her. Told her to get a case. Don’t worry, she’s fine, I just thought I should tell you.” Mycroft hummed on the other end, as though he could tell Joan was avoiding something.

“Thank you.” Mycroft hung up, and Joan stood frozen, still in the hallway. She’d demanded Sherlock get a case to prove to Joan that she really wanted her.

Pushing back the panic, Joan decided this was definitely a good thing, absolutely a positive event, and caught the tram to work.

Focusing on mundane colds and people’s aches and pains ignored for months was hard work when all she could think of was where Sherlock was, and how far she was getting in the cases. She wanted to rush home and take Sherlock to her room and not leave for a week. They could send out for pizza if they got hungry. She also knew that would be the wrong approach to take, and that, in a relationship with two damaged people slow was definitely better.

At lunch, Lestrade rang, and Joan ignored it. After her shift, when the others were going down to the pub for a drink, Joan joined them, knowing there was no food at home and knowing that, normally, this is what she’d do. She hadn’t decided what to do about Sherlock, and since no one was actively trying to kill her she was allowed to have an early dinner with friends if she wanted.

Sherlock was at home when she got there, sprawled out on the couch with a box of take-away noodles next to her and a stack of files she wasn’t reading.

“Finally.”

“You’ve been waiting for me, have you?” Sherlock leaped up, her dressing gown swirling around her. She was in her pyjamas already, a flimsy singlet and shorts that left nothing to the imagination.

Joan focused instead on setting her things down.

“Of course I have.” Sherlock’s arms were wrapping around her, pulling her in close.

“Sherlock, no,” she said, pushing her away.

“I got cases. I’m doing what you said.” The confusion on her face was clear.

“Sit down.”

“If you say you’re going to make some tea so help me god-” Joan snorted.

“No. Just, sit.”

They sat.

“I don’t trust you.”

“Why not?”

“In school, you left me,” she breathed in deeply, gathering her thoughts. “My mother had just died, I had so few friends, I was so in love with you, and then you disappeared.”

“This isn’t school anymore, Joan.”

“I know,” she rubbed her hair, “But then there was Jennifer Moriarty. And Irene Adler. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m just going to be an inferior distraction.”

“Inferior?”

“I’m not like them, Sherlock. I’m just a wounded soldier.” Sherlock leaned forward.

“You are excellent, Joan. I wouldn’t have you as my friend if you weren’t.” Joan leaned back, shaking her head, amazed at herself for saying no. But they were both still so fragile.

“I need things to be normal, again. You taking cases, dragging me away from work to chase some car thief, us both swearing at Anderson. We can't be a thing if I’m babysitting you.”

“I took cases!”

“You solved cases. Right now, you have nothing again, except for me. I want you to have a murder on your hands, a serial killer, and I want you to turn it down, for me. I can’t be a sideshow attraction, I need to be the main event.”

“Joan,” began Sherlock, but Joan held up a hand.

“I didn’t say that how I meant. I know that, whatever happens, I’ll always be the mistress, and your work will be the wife. But I can’t be something to just fill in the gaps.”

“You want me to sneak around on work. Have an affair with you?” They both smiled at the way the analogy had gone.

“Yes.” Sherlock licked her lips, and Joan almost took it all back, nearly said that she was fine with anything so long as Sherlock was hers, at least some of the time.

“Okay.” They stared at each other, Joan forcing herself to stay where she was. “I can do that. I think.”

Sherlock stared at her friend. Problems she never thought she’d had pressed against the inside of her skull and they burned painfully. She was scared that Joan would go away.

“Joan,” she said, finally, “I need you to tell me, when I’m doing something wrong. You’re my... my first. I can’t... I can’t lose you,” she finished in a husky whisper.

“I know,” said Joan, gently. “It’s okay. I won’t let you screw this up.”

“Good,” sighed Sherlock, and picked up a file to read.

Joan was dismissed, and for a second it hurt, and then Joan realised, things were normal again. 


	15. Chapter 15

 “Holy fucking cow,” gasped Joan at the smell.

“No. Pig,” said Sherlock, dryly, handing Joan a white plastic suit as she pushed her phone into her pocket with some difficulty, and zipped the suit up again.

“Why the hell would someone dispose of a body at a piggery?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Joan, I did think you were more intelligent than that.”

“Of course I am,” she said, unable to shake the feeling that they were flirting, and had been for weeks, between cases and clients and Christmas. Flirting, occasionally kissing, but nothing that couldn’t be done in front of the family. If either of them had any family to speak of. It was nice. Slow. Perhaps too slow but with cases and clients and Christmas neither of them had really the energy to ask for more. “But it’s not very considerate to us.”

“I’m really not sure what I’ll be able to see,” snapped Sherlock to Gregson, who was standing with a crinkled nose already with brown smears against the lower parts of his plastic coveralls. “The pigs will have eaten half of it and trodden on the rest.”

“Just tell me what you can, Sherlock, that’s all I need.”

“Why does it have to be fucking summer,” moaned Joan, unwilling to let it go. It was her day off, and Sarah was having a barbeque. Her place had a pool. Joan had been looking forward to it all week, and had even cleared the fingers off the shelf in the fridge so some chicken could marinate.

“If we finish up here maybe we can get to Sarah’s before it’s over.”

“Doubtful,” said Joan. Factoring in the time Sherlock would want for the body, and then the files, and then the long drive back home, a shower, a second shower, and then finally to Sarah’s, it would probably not be worth going at all.

“No,” said Sherlock, pointing at the papers in her hand, “wife,” she pointed at Joan, “mistress.” She leaned in, brushing Joan’s ear with her mouth as she whispered, “and I’ve not paid enough attention to the mistress lately.”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow at them, but said nothing. Everyone thought they’d been sleeping together since the very start. It was a relief, in some ways, because it made things easier, but sometimes, it made everything so much more difficult.

The body still had its hair, most of its face and the bones of its legs. The soft parts of the body were, on the whole, chewed away.

“When was the body found?” asked Sherlock, all business.

“Three hours ago,” said Gregson. “Right at feeding time. The man cleared the pigs out and called us.” Sherlock leaned down, Joan crouching beside her.

“She wasn’t dead when she was left here,” said Sherlock. “Eaten alive by pigs...” Joan shuddered. “But she was in clear pain before any of that, though. Look, here,” said Sherlock, pointing at a mark along an uneaten shoulder. “That laceration was not made by a pig, and if we...” she stepped around the body and raised the other arm with a gloved hand. “Joan, what can you see on the other side?” Joan reached over and brushed away the muck, revealing long welts.

“More marks.” Sherlock put the arm back down. “She was tortured, then?”

“Unlikely. Beaten up, nothing routine, just fun and games.” She straightened and snatched the file away from Gregson’s outstretched hand. She gave it not much more than a cursory glance, and Gregson glared at her. “No, I’m afraid that what we’ve got here is likely just a regular gang thing. Dead prostitute, quick disposal. Run the names of employees and their contacts against likely suspects.”

“That’s it?” asked Gregson.

“Perhaps not,” admitted Sherlock. “But that’s all I’ve got to offer this afternoon. Run the names; get back to me in the morning.”

“Sherlock,” he began, but Sherlock’s eyes, so soft and sweet when looking at Joan, warned him away. Joan sometimes forgot that not everyone looked at the detective the same way she did. “Right. Thanks for making the trip. I might see you at Sarah’s, if I manage to make it. If it is just gang related, well, there’s not much to be done. I’ll have to hand it over to whoever’s dealing with the group that looks most likely.”

 -

Joan showered, twice, blowing her nose to rid herself of the stench and nearly drowning in the Listerine she gargled. The smell was everywhere. Dead body, pigs, shit... Sherlock showered only once and then covered herself in perfume, probably more to protect Joan from the smell than from any concern of her own. Anyone who voluntarily did faecal flotation tests in her own kitchen probably didn’t have that much of a sense of smell, reasoned Joan. She appreciated the effort.

“Going to swim, then?”

“Yeah,” she looked up. “You’re not, I presume.” Sherlock was wearing what Joan had started to think of as her casual-night-out not-on-a-case outfit: high waisted short shorts with a light blouse. She still wore boots, just in case, but it felt nicely grown up and strangely comfortable to be packing swimmers and meat and drinks for a barbeque at a friend’s house on a summer evening.

“You don’t have to do this, you know. You can stay home.” Sherlock snorted, and Joan frowned. “You’re terrible at people and really would rather be here working on the case. You know and I know it wasn’t gang related, and nothing Gregson turns up will help.” Sherlock’s phone buzzed, and she frowned at it.

“Mistress, wife. And tonight, I choose mistress. So please, take me before the wife comes calling.”

She dropped her phone on the couch and skipped down the stairs, leaving Joan to carry the bags.

 

The water was warm, and the pool was dark up the far end, away from the group who were resting in the shallows with glasses of wine. Joan lay back, feeling antisocial and not at all guilty for it.

Sherlock was up by the table of food, hopefully listening more than talking and, at the very least, hopefully being polite. Joan didn’t mind even if she weren’t. She was here, and Joan was here, and there was a murderer out there that Sherlock had left behind.

They’d have to leave early for Sherlock to get back to her phone. Joan faked a yawn, now, here in the dark, just in case Sherlock was watching. Joan didn’t want to let Sherlock think they left early for any reason other than an early night for Joan. She paddled slowly back towards the group, taking a glass of wine when it was offered and laughing along with a joke. It was all wonderfully normal.

 -

“Joan, we’re here,” said Sherlock, pushing against her shoulder and getting out of the car. Joan blinked awake, surprised to realise that she had, actually, been tired.

“Thanks for the lift, Sarah.”

“No problem. It was lovely to see you both. Good night!” Sarah cheerfully smiled at them as Joan shut the car door and followed Sherlock up to their flat.

“I’m going to bed,” declared Joan, as soon as they were inside. Sherlock hadn’t made a move for her phone. She was standing several steps away, looking quizzically at her. “Thank you for tonight. You can go back to your murder, if you want.”

“Joan,” said Sherlock, crossing the distance between them and putting her hands on Joan’s hips. “It’s okay, I can take a little more time out.”

“You left your phone here, and you still haven’t looked at it. You must be itching to find out what.” Sherlock leaned in so their foreheads pressed together.

“I am,” she murmured in a thick voice, “but tonight is yours. What do you want?”

Joan reached up, and kissed her. It was slow, and Joan was tired, but it was gentle and nice and she wanted to not stop. She groaned, softly, into Sherlock’s mouth, who pushed her backwards into the wall, gently grinding their bodies together. The weight of Sherlock leaning on her was relaxing and easy, and they kissed lethargically.

“You’re tired,” said Sherlock, eventually. She sounded regretful, as though she had expected much more from their evening. Joan felt a pang of guilt and pushed it down. She didn’t want to take things further just yet.

“I really am. But tonight was lovely. And all I wanted was a swim in a pool, and a kiss from you. This is what I wanted.” Sherlock looked as though she didn’t quite trust Joan, but she nodded.

Joan kissed her, again, on her tiptoes and leaning into Sherlock, fingers dragging on her hair pulling her down into her. Then she went to bed, alone and happy. 


	16. Chapter 16

By the third day of the case, Sherlock had stopped eating and sleeping, and spent her little time at the flat pacing frantically about, demanding that Joan read out files and screen calls.

Sherlock’s birthday passed, which Joan only knew because she’d once glanced at her ID. Since Sherlock didn’t seem to be about to slow down, and definitely wasn’t the sort to acknowledge birthdays, so Joan did nothing more than buy a cake and leave it in the fridge. A piece was missing the next morning, and that was that. Sherlock had a murder, which was enough of a birthday present that Joan didn’t feel guilty for leaving it alone.

The murder hadn’t been gang related, and the piggery employees had all been startlingly clean. Sherlock had been ignoring Joan. Not intentionally, but she’d been reduced to position of sounding board and general PA again in deference to the mystery.

She spent her lunches in the mortuary in case there was anything abnormal going on. Lestrade didn’t hear of every suspicious death, and Joan liked Lauren, one of the pathologists. Lauren was married to a man who was married to his work, a businessman, and while their marriage was happy and worked, Lauren understood the frustration of being pushed aside. And they both knew their way around a dead body.

She invited Joan ‘and hers’ out to dinner.

“Her name is Sherlock,” said Joan. They were staring intently at a liver.

“Odd name.”

“Her brother is called Mycroft. They’re all odd.” The phone in her pocket buzzed. “Speak of the devil,” she said, and answered the call.

“Have you got a body there?” Joan eyed the body in front of her, rips cracked and chest splayed open.

“Yes.”

“How old?” Joan covered the mouthpiece and turned to Lauren.

“When did he die?” Lauren checked the chart.

“Twelve-thirty last night.” Joan relayed the information.

“Excellent. Take a serrated knife, cut at the thigh down the back of the knee. It doesn’t need to be directly in the centre. Take a photo, text it to me.”

“This is someone else’s body, Sherlock,” she said, but there was a click and Joan was left frowning.

“What did she want?”

“Wants me to test a serrated edge on a dead body. You got one handy?” Lauren opened her mouth to protest but Joan waved her away. “Trust me, she’ll get her way in the end so it’s better to just go along with it.” She found a knife and, with Lauren’s help, twisted a body over so she could slice at the skin.

“How deep does she want it?” Joan shrugged, and pressed so she cut through to the muscle. The skin tore in a jagged kind of way before pulling back cleanly.

She got a response to the photo within seconds.

_Not what I was looking for._

_Did I cut wrong?_

_No. Tell Lauren yes._

“Yes to what?” asked Lauren, reading over her shoulder.

“Dinner, I presume.” Her phone buzzed again.

_I’m free tonight. Mistress._

“What?” asked Lauren, with a laugh.

“Oh, well,” Joan could feel a blush rising over her cheeks. “I made an analogy. Her job is her wife, I’m the mistress.”

“So nothing kinky? Pity,” said Lauren, still laughing.

“Yes. Well. Right. What do you think did it?” she asked, bending down over the liver.

“Hopefully not us,” said Lauren, leaving the text alone and focusing on the task at hand.


	17. Chapter 17

 “It was her sister,” said Sherlock. She was late, but only enough that they’d ordered drinks which hadn’t arrived at their table yet.

“Whose sister?” asked Lauren.

“The one at the piggery that I was telling you about,” explained Joan.

“Do we have to talk murder before the breadbasket has even arrived?” complained Matthew, good-naturedly.

“With a doctor, a pathologist and a consulting detective? What else is there to discuss?” Lauren’s husband leaned back in his chair.

“Well, I was involved in a particularly successful transaction today.”

“Oh, you got the Stevenson contract?”

“Damn right I did,” said Matthew, with a wide grin at his wife. Joan smiled at them both, amazed at how remarkably normal this all was. She knew she’d go home and there’d be a head in the fridge or mice in a cage on the kitchen table. At least the case was over. Perhaps Sherlock would get some sleep tonight.

She had been very well behaved.

Even refrained from sneering at Joan’s suggestions about the case, for the most part.

“How long have you two been together?” asked Lauren, suddenly.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Joan. Sherlock stepped in.

“It’s a bit weird, see,” she said in a casual voice Joan knew was an act, at least, it was not Sherlock’s normal way of speaking. “We were kind of together during high school. Well, Joan was crazy about me and I was a bit messed up. Then we lost contact for ages and now, well, there isn’t exactly a set date to pick.”

“Sometimes it feels like we’ve been together our whole lives,” said Joan, truthfully. “And then, other times it’s like I met her only yesterday. What about you two?”

“It was five years in January.”

“And two years before that?” asked Sherlock.

“Yes,” said Matthew, surprised. “How did you know?”

“Oh, it’s obvious, really.” She left it at that, and they ordered.

 

“So, the sister?” asked Matthew, leaning back, lasagne half eaten in front of him and a bottle of wine by his plate.”The sister of whom?”

“There was a body left at a piggery up near Bulla.”

“Do pigs really eat people?”

“They eat anything. Pity for the sister, though, these pigs were well fed and didn’t do much damage. Left signs of a beating and there was a very obvious wound to the back of the head that the pigs did not cause.”

“Aren’t female killers a bit, well, rare?” asked Matthew.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, leaning forward, grateful for the attentive audience. “And isn’t it exciting when we get one?”

“So how did they get into the piggery? I thought everyone was clean?” Sherlock turned her fierce eyes to Joan, who felt her stomach leap.

“I didn’t account for the lax security of the place. When they said no one could get in I didn’t investigate further. What they meant was, why would anyone want to go near that place?” Remembering the stench, Joan couldn’t fault them that assumption.

“So, you’ll sleep tonight, then?” Sherlock smiled, and Joan smiled back, until Lauren interrupted them.

“If you’ve really been together that long you’re putting me and Matthew to shame. Stop making googly eyes at each other,” Joan blushed and Sherlock looked awkwardly at her plate.

“Dessert, then?” asked Matthew cheerfully, breaking the moment. The conversation turned to casual things Sherlock had little interest in, or knowledge of. Near the end of dessert she touched her foot to Joan’s leg, and winked across the table.

They’d been together for months with nothing more than holding hands down the street or kissing on their couch. They’d been going slow, and Sherlock seemed glad for that, but Joan wouldn’t mind if things moved on a little faster.

The case was over, and Friday night was always her night. She gave a little smile, biting her lip and holding Sherlock’s gaze for just a moment.

She was looking forward to going home.

 -

Sherlock stroked Joan’s thigh in the taxi home, and Joan didn’t push her hand away. When she flicked the skirt up a little to touch skin, she let her, and then, when her nails scraped a little higher, teasing, flitting little touches along the tender skin, she shifted only enough that Sherlock could touch a little easier. She forced herself to stare out of the window, pretending as though she could pretend this was nothing, nothing was happening, it was all – she gasped.

There was a thumb pressed into the crease between her thigh and her hip, and long fingers rubbing at inner thigh. Joan’s mouth went dry. It had been so long since anyone touched her there, and this was _Sherlock_.

At least there was music, at least Sherlock was staring out her window, and at least the driver hadn’t seemed to notice. Joan had never been one for taxi-drive hook-ups, or cars for anything except the slightest of foreplay. Sherlock seemed to know that, and didn’t press further, keeping her fingers moving but not straying.

It took all of Joan’s willpower, her nails digging into the palm of her hand, eyes forced to stare at the passing traffic, to not grab Sherlock and pull her onto her lap.

With some effort, Joan calmly paid the driver and followed Sherlock into the house, where they were met by Mrs Hudson, who was in a frantic state.

“Oh, girls! There’s someone waiting for you! Blood everywhere.”

Joan pushed past Sherlock, the feelings from the taxi ride dissipating instantly. Blood was her territory.

The person in question was on the rug, half propped up against the coffee table. His hand held a bloodied cloth, but his arm had fallen to his lap and his chest pulsed red.  

“Call an ambulance!” cried Joan, getting to work. The man’s other arm hung loosely at his side, broken.

Sherlock was already on the phone.

The shirt was torn, and thick with blood. Joan made to stand, but Sherlock shoved scissors into her hand. Cutting away at the shirt, Joan found a gaping bullet wound, and hundreds of tiny cuts decorating the rest of his chest. They glinted, and Joan could see the tiny flecks of glass in them.

She swore.

“Are they on their way?”

“Yes.”

“He’s not awake.” She found bandages pushed into her hand, and pushed them firmly against the wound. The splinters of glass were less important than the huge loss of blood. He didn’t seem to be aware of her actions.

“Lestrade?” asked Sherlock, behind her. “We’ve got a man here. Shot in the chest. Glass all over him. I’m guessing he got shot and pushed out of a window.” She handed Joan two of the spokes from the chair Sherlock had smashed late last year, and Joan used them to splint the arm. Her first aid kit was running low of supplies.

“Fuck.”

“What?”

“He’s dead.” 


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock had pushed the furniture and books to the side and rolled up the rug. Joan’s shirt and thighs were speckled with blood, and Sherlock wrapped her arms around her, holding her tight.

Joan didn’t miss the war. Didn’t miss the bad food and often terrible company. She didn’t miss the danger and the death and the chaos.

Without Sherlock Joan’s life would be infinitely more dull.

Still. Sometimes it was too much.

“Come on,” whispered Sherlock, taking her hand and tugging her towards the bathroom. Joan allowed Sherlock to unzip her skirt and pull up her shirt, revealing less-than-practical underwear. Sherlock ignored them and all the implications they brought with them.

Joan didn’t complain as Sherlock reached around her, unclipping her bra, and then ran her hands down Joan’s sides to push her underwear to the floor. The shower was already going, and Joan stepped in, standing blankly under the stream until she remembered the blood and started lathering herself.

“You’ve been through a lot, you’ve never been like this afterwards,” said Sherlock, gently, as she took off her clothes layer by layer and folded them neatly.

“You haven’t noticed,” mumbled Joan. “But no. Not usually this bad.”

“It reminded you of the war, was that it?”

“No,” said Joan, because it wasn’t. She wasn’t sure what it was. Except that there was a man dead that she couldn’t save and that always hurt. Sherlock pressed up against her, wrapping her arms around her, and although they were both naked and the soap and water made everything warm and slippery, Joan could scarcely remember the burning desire she’d felt in the taxi barely an hour earlier.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Joan shook her head numbly before finding her voice.

“No.”

Sherlock leaned against her. She was probably relieved, thought Joan bitterly, and then pushed the thought away. She might be terrible at people, but she was here, holding Joan, when probably all she wanted was to be out there finding out who fired the gun. Trusting it to Lestrade made more sense, but Sherlock never trusted anyone to do a job properly.

Sherlock helped her towel off, gently rubbing at her short blond hair and running the towel along her arms and down her back.

The bed was a tangled mess from Joan’s fitful sleep the night before, but Sherlock had turned on the air conditioner and it was lovely and cool. Still naked, Joan sank down onto the mattress, pulling a pillow close to her. For a moment, she was alone, eyes closed, mind blank, and then the light flicked off and a weight settled down next to her.

“Sherlock, I can’t,” she began, but the hand around her waist had done nothing, had moved nowhere.

They slept.


	19. Chapter 19

Joan woke to the smell of burnt bacon, which either meant another experiment by Sherlock involving the way human flesh reacted to various types , or she was making breakfast. The former was the less disturbing of the two.

“You really don’t have to do that,” she said. She’d wrapped Sherlock’s second-best dressing gown around herself, and smiled to see Sherlock wearing the other one.

“We have company,” said Sherlock, and Joan turned to see Lestrade sitting somewhat awkwardly beside Mycroft. Neither of them were surprised at their appearance.

“Right,” she said, with a frown, and pushed Sherlock away from the stove. “No, go,” she insisted, “I’ve eaten your breakfast, and it was awful. Make toast, if you must. Do you gentleman need anything?” They said they were fine, but Joan made Sherlock give them some iced tea anyway.

They sat down in the sitting room, Sherlock and Joan eating on their laps as was their custom. The bacon had gone beyond comfortably crispy, and the eggs were a weird mix of soft-cooked and burned flecks, but it was edible.

“Who was the man?” asked Joan.

“His name was Anthony Papadakis. He was in the army.” Lestrade looked at Joan. “With you.” Joan shook her head. She couldn’t recall the name, or the face. “He was clean,” he added, to Joan. She nodded, grateful, having not even considered the possibility of AIDS.

“Why was he shot?” asked Sherlock.

“We don’t know.” Sherlock snorted, and Mycroft sniffed disdainfully at his sister.

“You like a mystery just as much as the next person. More, even. Pity he’s dead, we can’t get any information.”

“A dead body tells a story without lies, unlike a living person,” said Sherlock. “Let me know if you find anything.”

“You don’t want to assist on this case?”

“It hasn’t piqued my interest.”

“Dead man who worked with Watson not interesting enough?”

“I’ll let your officers do the leg work.” Sherlock turned to her brother. “Why are you here?”

“You haven’t been answering my calls.”

“She never answers your calls,” pointed out Joan.

“You weren’t answering my calls, either. I’ll stop paying for your groceries,” he warned.

“Well, we’re both clearly alive,” said Sherlock, reaching over the side of the couch for her violin. “So you can just leave us alone. Both of you, unless you have something brilliantly interesting for me. But honestly, I’m feeling like a little bit of R’n’R. You know, stay in, catch up on telly.”

Lestrade coughed and stood hastily. Mycroft was a little more relaxed about it.

“If you’re going to ignore my calls in favour of finally having sex, by all means, go ahead, but please text every once in a while so I know you are alive.” As always, he sounded like a tired parent.

“I’ll call if anything interesting comes up, then?” Lestrade eyes darted between them.

“Please do,” said Joan, closing the door behind him. There was a moment of silence, and then Joan turned. “You cooked me breakfast.”

“Yes.”

“You never cook me breakfast.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Okay, you have, once. Your brother knows we haven’t slept together yet.”

Sherlock put the bow to the violin. A few notes whined out, and Sherlock tightened a string.

“Well, I’ll clean up breakfast, and then I’ve got to be off to work. Text me if anything happens.”

The violin serenaded her as she washed, showered and dressed, tramping up the stairs to her own room to get her clothes, and then back downstairs to hang Sherlock’s dressing gown up in her room.

Joan was trying not to think too hard about the previous night, about being naked and about Sherlock holding her as they slept. The dead man kept rising, unbidden, to the front of her mind, though, and Sherlock’s body was a happier memory. She shoved them all aside.

She was going to go to work and help sick people and get better and probably be texted half a dozen times by Sherlock. She stood at the door of the flat, checking that she had everything, when the violin stopped.

“Decided you’re going to help Lestrade with whoever shot that guy?” she asked. She looked up from checking that she had everything she needed in her bag, only to find Sherlock was right in front of her.

Sherlock kissed her, fast and hard, pulling back before it had quite begun.

“Sorry,” said Sherlock, stepping back. “Goodbye kisses aren’t... They haven’t been discussed.”

“No. That was,” Joan smiled, “that was nice. I’m okay with goodbye kisses.”

It’s like we’re a real couple, she thought, a real couple who doesn’t shag and who deals with bleeding men at midnight. She kissed Sherlock again, just to make sure they were really doing this, and then she went to work. 


	20. Chapter 20

“Hey, you!” Sherlock kept her face ducked down, focusing on her feet moving down the footpath and reviewing the case in her head.

“Hey! Sherlock!” With a little growl, she looked up into an all too familiar face. “Thought it was you. You haven’t changed much.” The man looked her up and down. “You look a little fatter.”

“Yeah,” said Sherlock. He was blocking her path, and she didn’t want to talk to him, of all people.

“I haven’t seen you in a while. Did you find someone new?”

“No.”

“Come on, Shirley, you were one of my best customers.”

“Indeed.” She tapped her foot impatiently, wanting him gone, and the memories with him. “I’m clean.”

“You? Clean?”

“Yes,” she said with an angry frown. “Me. Clean.”

“Wow,” he breathed. “Never thought I’d see that. Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a pity.” Her eyes blazed for a moment before she breathed and forced herself to relax a little.

“Yes.”

“If you ever need anything, you know where to find me, yeah?”

“I won’t be needing you. Good day.”

She pushed past him, her thoughts shattered and with a deep sense of discomfort in her stomach. She hadn’t told Joan the full extent of her past, and it left her feeling as though she were lying. She pushed the feeling away. So long as she were hunting leads and talking the case over with Gregson she could ignore it.

A few clues took her deep into the laboratories, hiding amongst shining white benches and array of bottles, and the rhythm of pipetting and stirring and waiting was comforting.

Joan texted sometime during the day, and Sherlock didn’t see it until the rumbling in her stomach demanded that she surface to find food. She ignored it, because she was lying to Joan, and she didn’t know what to do.

The case was confusing. There was no pattern, or, there was something missing. Something big. Lestrade didn’t know, and Sherlock was left alone to puzzle it together.

She couldn’t focus.

She went home only when she was certain Joan was sleeping, and got up after Joan had left. Avoiding her. She hoped Joan didn’t notice and didn’t want to find out if she had. The words of the dealer burned in her ears. As if she, of all people, could possibly recover, could possibly pick themselves up and move on.

Sherlock felt like a coward.

It took her three days to bring herself to ring Mycroft.

“Is something the matter?” Sherlock rarely rang, except for complicated conversations that were inconvenient over messages, or something big.

“It’s Joan.”

 “What’s happened?” asked Mycroft, and it was clear in his voice that he wanted to know what limb had been chopped off, which hospital she was at, which organisation or gang he had to destroy for allowing it to happen.

“No,” said Sherlock. She stared at the microscope. “Not that.”

Mycroft had been her guardian and saviour, ready to help in times of need even if she didn’t always deserve it. She hated Mycroft and felt nothing for him, and knew that she would destroy any person who so much as harmed a hair on his head.

“She doesn’t know,” she whispered into the phone.

She could hear Mycroft tapping his desk, impatient and busy but unwilling to hang up. The man who had seen her at her worst, who had carried her through all those years. He knew her as completely as a brother could.

“Know what, Sherlock?”

“School. All of that.”

In his shadowy office, Mycroft frowned. He had thought even Sherlock had the sense to share that kind of information. Joan knew, or suspected, but that was different to being told.

“You’ve not told her?”

“No,” whispered Sherlock. She hated feeling weak, and was so used to the feeling. How did people respond, how did people know what to do and what to say and when? Other people were so bewildering.

“Sherlock,” said Mycroft, and it was the same voice he’d used all those years ago. Gentle, firm, and a little bit angry. “Joan has known you for a very long time. She understands you. Tell her.”

“What if she leaves?”

Mycroft aligned his pen with the side of a piece of paper, which sat square with his keyboard. When he spoke, he spoke with absolute certainty.

“She won’t.”

The call left Sherlock empty and sick with dread. Her fingers itched for a cigarette. For something more. She stared determinedly at the slide, and adjusted the focus just a little bit. There was a dead man, a mystery. She knew how to deal with those kinds of problems.

Mycroft’s advice rang in her ears as she examined each piece of evidence, and, eventually, on Thursday, she texted Joan. It was the first text she had sent for days, the first contact she had with Joan in days, and Joan responded instantly. Yes, she would love to go to dinner on Friday night, as though there had been any question about it. They always went to dinner on Fridays.

Sherlock tried to recite what she was going to say over in her head, but she could not manage to form the words even in her mind.

She had until Friday, and then Joan would leave. 


	21. Chapter 21

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh?” asked Joan, as though she were surprised that there was a motive behind the dinner.

Sherlock had been avoiding her. Joan had been hurt, and was going to seek her out, but then she’d bumped into Sarah at the hospital. Her fingers had been on the touchpad of her phone about to send a text to Sherlock saying she knew she was being avoided, and then Sarah’s shoulder had collided with hers and all the papers Sarah had been holding had gone tumbling to the floor.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, rushing to help Sarah.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Sarah, arranging the files once more in her arms and straightening. “You look like death warmed up.”

Joan passed a hand over her face, wishing she had a patient she could plausibly place the blame on for her appearance.

“Is it Sherlock?” asked Sarah.

“She’s ignoring me.” She could hear the anger in her voice, and could see the surprise on Sarah’s face. “A man died on our living room floor, and she’s decided to start ignoring me.”

“So she’s distracted with a case,” said Sarah, in a tone that clearly meant, ‘you knew what you were getting yourself in for’.

“She always texts me. She likes someone to bounce ideas off of.” The screen of her phone had gone blank and she swiped it on again. Rereading the text she was about to send made it seem more pitiful than frustrated at Sherlock’s absence.

“Things between you are kind of new, aren’t they?”

“We’ve been together for months,” corrected Joan.

“Sherlock’s never had a relationship,” said Sarah. “Things are new, for her. Give her a bit of space to figure it out.”

Joan deleted the message without sending it, but when she got the text about dinner on Friday she was more worried than relieved. Perhaps Sherlock had decided she didn’t want their relationship. Perhaps it was all over.

She arranged the napkin carefully over her lap and pretended as though everything was normal, and there was no distance between them.

“So, we’re not here for a case?” The restaurant was more fancy than their usual affair.

“Oh, we’re here for a case. That waitress is sleeping with the barman, who’s stealing from the till. The sous-chef is cheating on her boyfriend.”

“Which one is the case?”

“The money, of course. But I also wanted to talk to you.” Joan nodded, and waited.

A server came by, and Sherlock ordered for them without looking at the menu.

“What about?”

“How was your day?” asked Sherlock, and Joan frowned. Sherlock launched into conversation as though Joan had only popped into the kitchen for a cup of tea rather than out of the flat for hours. She didn’t ask such mundane questions. The pit of worry in her stomach only sunk lower at the words.

“It was fine. That’s not what you want to talk about.” Sherlock swallowed.

“I don’t... This isn’t something I like to talk about.” Joan’s fingers rested lightly on the tablecloth, a scar running along the side of one hand. Sherlock couldn’t recall it, and wondered what had happened there.

Perhaps it wasn’t a breakup.

Joan considered the options, running through things of which Sherlock did not speak.

“You want to talk about what happened before Hartswood.” Sherlock gave a small nod. “This is why you’ve been avoiding me?”

“You noticed.”

“You generally text more often.”

“You didn’t ask,” said Sherlock, wondering why.

“Sarah told me to give you some space.”

“I don’t know if I should start the conversation now or wait until our entree.”

“Whatever you feel comfortable with.”

Sherlock wondered at her, at how calm she was. She wondered how long that would last.  

“Tell me about your day,” said Sherlock, and she was begging for something to fill the silence. Joan ran her mind over her day, and then over the week.

“Some parents came in, didn’t have an appointment or anything, left their kids in the waiting room and there was some poor girl there waiting while their kids climbed all over everywhere. Stupid gits. I gave her a lollipop even though she was just there for a five minute consult.”

Their bread was put on the table.

“Had the typical weird-object-in-the-arse case for the week. It was a hammer.” Sherlock’s lip twitched.

“How was that a problem? The end is larger.”

“A child’s plastic hammer, and he didn’t put it in the sensible direction. At least it wasn’t glass,” said Joan with a shudder. “Makes me miss Afghanistan, sometimes.”

Sherlock said nothing as their entrees were placed on the table. Soup, for both of them. Joan kept yammering about inane things, trying to pick out the most interesting for Sherlock’s sake.

“Do you miss high school?” asked Sherlock, interrupting the regaling of story one of the nurses had been telling Joan.

“God, no. Bullies, all of them. Not to say there weren’t some good points,” she added, catching Sherlock’s eye, “but I wouldn’t go back there for all the world.”

“I can’t remember it.”

“It was a long time ago,” hummed Joan.

“No,” said Sherlock, earnestly. “I can’t remember it. Not much, at least.”

Joan kept eating, and waited. Sherlock fidgeted, tearing her bread and dropping it into her soup, but not touching her spoon. When her spoon was scraping the bottom of the bowl and Sherlock still hadn’t said anything, Joan decided to speak.

“I know you did drugs. I know things were messed up. Hell, last weekend we had a man die in our apartment. But I haven’t left you. I’m still here.”

Sherlock was sitting straight, one thumb busy picking at nails on the same hand. The other hand lay flat and pale against the white table cloth. When she spoke, her voice was soft.

“Everyone hated me. You knew me in high school, I was worse before. Before I met you,” she studied her fingers. “I didn’t know how to talk to people, how to socialise. I didn’t know how to interact.”

“Kids can be cruel,” said Joan, for something to say.

“They broke my arm.” She touched her fingers to the place on her forearm, although there was no mark.

“I remember you saying.”

“I was at the boarding school, St Marks,” she added. The name was bitter on her tongue. “Mycroft needed me out of the house, my parents tend to live in Europe rather than Australia, and it was a high-achieving school he thought would be good for me.”

She breathed, forcing air out in a steady rate and telling herself to calm down.

“A couple of them set my room on fire. Luckily, I was too wasted to get home, so I wasn’t there.” She stopped talking as their bowls were whisked away, and replaced by their main course. “Afterwards, they said it was a joke, a mistake, someone had kicked over a candle. They lied. They were smoking, hence the fire, and going through my things. At first, it was fantastic,” she continued, and it took Joan a moment to realise she meant the drugs, not the fire. Nothing in Sherlock’s voice had changed, and she spoke in the same tone of voice she used to describe the solution to a crime that hadn’t thrilled her. “It was something that helped me to focus. And then, as things at school got worse, something to help me escape.”

“What’s your poison?”

“Oh, everything,” she said with a shallow smile. “Whatever I can get my hands on. Mycroft used to say I’d drink embalming fluid if I thought it would get me high. But mostly it was heroin. Can’t go past opium if you want to really escape this dimension.” She sneered at herself. “After the arm-breaking incident, Mycroft dragged me away from St Marks, made me get clean. Hartswood was meant to ease me back into the real world.”

Joan nodded. The older brother had been so protective of Sherlock, pulling Joan away and asking about school, and then there had been Mr Steve and his questions.

“That worked out well.” Sherlock faltered at the sarcasm, then nodded. “You’re clean, now?”

“I don’t even smoke.”

“That’s what you meant by a compromise,” said Joan, not exactly directing the comment at Sherlock. She’d realised before, when Lestrade had gone through their apartment.

“It took a lot of convincing for Mycroft to get me to school. If he knew I was smoking, at least I was sober and not passed out in an alley somewhere. Or fighting.”

“You fought?” Joan could remember the how feeble Sherlock had seemed during high school.

“Not well. I got better, after Hartswood. After...” she faltered, drew in a breath and forced onwards. “After Mandel,” she said in a rush, “everything went to hell, again. Mycroft was spending more time in Sydney and couldn’t look after me from afar. He took me with him, to keep an eye on me, but it didn’t work. I ran away, came to Melbourne,” her voice drifted off, and Joan wondered what memories she was hiding. She didn’t want to ask. She didn’t need to know. There were enough addicts passing through the doors of the hospital for her to know it all already.

“You left me,” said Joan. There was more venom in her voice than she meant, and the at the look on Sherlock’s face she wanted to drag the words back. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I am. You weren’t high on my list of priorities, at the time. I just... snapped.”

Joan didn’t know if Sherlock had more to say, so she focused on her plate, and waited.

“I can’t remember much of anything before or after high school, except you. There were drugs. Girls. Probably boys, I can’t remember. It was a co-ed school, after all, and I wasn’t exactly one for saying no. Not if there was a hit to be had.” Joan remembered their kiss, Sherlock saying it was her first. She opened her mouth before deciding that, if Sherlock couldn’t remember, and didn’t want it to, it didn’t count.

“It was... I have Asperger's. I know I tell everyone I’m a sociopath, but sociopathy is a joke people laugh at.”

Joan nodded, understanding. If you make fun of yourself maybe it will act like a shield to protect yourself.

“I figured you had Asperger's during medical school. Mycroft, too.”

“To a lesser extent, and I learned more slowly than him.”

“Rare, for women,” commented Joan. Then, “It must be exhausting.”

“You may not have noticed, but I don’t try to fit in all that often.” Joan quirked a little smile.

“You haven’t scared me off yet, if that’s your intention.” Sherlock made herself look up at Joan, noting the tension with which she held her fork, the way she held her glass, the flicker of her eyelids as she blinked and the rate of her breathing.

“Joan,” hissed Sherlock, leaning forward. “The things I did, I still have the scars.” She reached for her sleeve to prove it.

“You haven’t changed that much.” Sherlock’s eyes flashed, and her fingers dropped from the cuff of her cardigan. “There are human brains in our freezer. Sure, you might not get high, but Donovan was right. You get off on the job.” Realising that she was waving her cutlery about, she set them down on the plate. “I’ve known you for years, and I’m still here. I appreciate the honesty, but if you want me gone from you, you’ll have to try harder than ‘I used to do drugs, and sometimes people will try to kill you’.”

“I don’t want you gone,” said Sherlock quickly, not meeting Joan’s eyes. “I just thought you should know the truth.”

Reaching across the table, Joan flipped over Sherlock’s hand and ran her fingers across her palm.

“Thank you. I know it’s not something you want to talk about. But, by now, I think I’m here to stay.”

Sherlock gave a barely perceptible nod.

“I thought you had cancer, actually,” said Joan, taking her hand from Sherlock’s and returning to her food. “I thought the scars on your arms were from IVs. And you were so skinny and pale.”

“I gave up food for a bit. To spite Mycroft. It didn’t work.” Not that Sherlock ate much now, thought Joan. But she no longer looked emaciated, and she was digging into her food with something akin to relish.

“I do have a question.” Sherlock looked up. “Your parents were never around.”

“They tried, but they didn’t have the patience for me. They could deal with Mycroft, but another child who didn’t understand sentiment? Mycroft looked after me.”

“He cares.”

“He wanted me sober so he could go back to not giving a fuck,” sneered Sherlock, and Joan knew she didn’t really mean it.

“Well,” said Joan, pushing back her plate. “If you’re done talking and you’ve solved the case of the missing money, what’s on the agenda for the rest of the night?”

“I didn’t plan anything.” Sherlock looked down at her cutlery crossed neatly over her plate. “I didn’t know if you’d stay.”

 Joan looked at Sherlock’s lips, and leaned across the table to kiss her. Sherlock pulled back after a second, surprised, and Joan smiled.

“I know a cafe we can go to for dessert, if you fancy a walk.” They could both probably do with the fresh air.

“That sounds good.”

Sherlock waved the waiter over, who was then sent to get the manager. A few quiet words were exchanged, the man nodded at Joan, and they left without paying.

When Sherlock took her hand and intertwined their fingers together, she said nothing, just smiled, and they walked hand in hand down the street in the warm night air.

It would probably rain in about twenty minutes. Melbourne was like that. 


	22. Chapter 22

Their hair was softly damp when they made it back home, and Sherlock flopped down on the couch to pull off her boots. Joan slipped off her shoes. They were sensible and sturdy in case they suddenly needed to run. She’d learned.  

“If you make me a cup of tea I might stick you with my harpoon,” growled Sherlock as Joan padded in her stockings to the kitchen.

“I’d make a joke about how kinky that could be, except I’ve been through your sock drawers and I know you don’t have a strap on hidden anywhere.”

“I do have a harpoon.”

“Yes, but it’s not exactly a turn on.” She came back into the living room with a glass of water, the hem of her shirt sticking out from her skirt. “Are you going for bed?”

Sherlock had her laptop pulled up onto her belly, and she was curled awkwardly around it.

“Why, are you?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause as Sherlock studied her.

“I did just tell you I have Asperger’s.”

“Okay. We’ve only just started at this. I’m wired, but I don’t feel like a shag. Put your laptop away, and we can make out a bit before I go to bed.” Sherlock stared at her. “Sorry, was that too blunt?”

She set her glass down on the coffee table and sat down next to Sherlock, pushing their legs together.

“Do you talk to all your dates like this?”

Joan twisted on the couch. She ran a hand along Sherlock’s bare thigh, letting her thumb slip slightly under the cuff of her shorts.

“I’ve learned to give you directions when you don’t know something. You hate guessing,” she murmured into Sherlock’s ear.

“I love guessing,” breathed Sherlock, not moving as Joan nipped at her earlobe and then ran her tongue down Sherlock’s neck and along the underside of her jaw.

“Mm, sure,” said Joan, kissing the corner of Sherlock’s lips, and then up her cheek. Sherlock groaned and twisted, her hand coming to rest on Joan’s hip. Shifting, Joan drew her leg up under her so she could lean towards Sherlock, one hand still resting on her leg and the other coming up to sit under her hair on her neck.

“But not when it’s me,” she said, with a quick touch of their lips.

“No,” sighed Sherlock. “You’re,” she was interrupted by another kiss, “important.”

They stopped talking, then, as Joan pushed into Sherlock a little more firmly with her body so that she was leaning on her, arm wrapped around her neck. Sherlock let Joan guide the kissing, responding to every move she made, opening her mouth, tilting her head, pushing her tongue back against Joan’s and playfully biting at her lips whenever Joan pulled away. It was slow and relaxed, with a soft grinding rhythm, and Joan, with her eyes closed, felt as though she could do this forever.

Eventually, realising that the heady feeling she had from kissing Sherlock had worn off to be replaced with tiredness, and knowing that if she continued she’d renege on her decision to not sleep with Sherlock yet, Joan pulled away. Sherlock moaned as Joan untangled herself with some difficulty and slid off her lap.

“Us mortals have to sleep,” said Joan, leaning down to kiss her again, not wanting to let go.

“Can I come with you?”

Joan pulled back sharply.

“To sleep. I understand... I want to take it slow, too.”

Joan remembered Sherlock’s eyes at dinner, darting away from Joan’s face just as quickly as they came back, trying to gauge her reaction to Sherlock’s younger years. She couldn’t remember what had happened, which girls, if there had been boys. Oh, probably she could, dim, dusty memories of shapes moving in the dark, but Joan couldn’t blame her for wanting to forget.

They had time to take it slow.

“Sure,” she said, with one final kiss. “Just try not to wake me up when you come to bed.”

 

Joan closed her eyes and settled her breathing, trying not to focus too heavily on the feeling that coursed through her body, or her vibrator in the drawer. Sherlock mightn’t be coming to bed for hours yet, and so she shouldn’t wait up, but she might arrive in only a few minutes, and being found doing that was, well, mortifying. She pressed her legs together and put both hands determinedly beneath her pillow.

Sometime later, Joan didn’t know and perhaps she’d dozed off, there was a weight and a warmth behind her, and a cold hand slid across her stomach. She felt a nose nuzzle into the back of her neck, and she sighed happily, and dreamed well. 


	23. Chapter 23

“Sherlock,” said the voice in the phone. Joan stared blankly at the screen a moment, and then twisted in bed.

“Sherlock? It’s for you.” The body beside her moved, and it registered with Joan that it must be early. Sherlock moaned and took the phone.

“What?” Joan could hear Lestrade, loud through the phone.

“There’s been a robbery.”

“White collar crimes can wait until after breakfast,” snapped Sherlock.

“And a murder.”

“Text me where.” She hung up and stared at the ceiling.

“What time is it?” Joan picked the phone off the quilt next to Sherlock and tapped the screen alight.

“Five thirty.”

“You shower, I’ll make coffee,” said Joan. Sherlock rolled out of bed, not acknowledging Joan beyond a quick nod. Of course.

 -

After meeting with Lestrade at a house, Sherlock abandoned Joan without warning to follow some instinct. Joan was used to such behaviour by then, and calmly caught a tram home. They’d used the last of the milk that morning, and with Sherlock on a case it was far easier to commandeer the kitchen and make a proper meal.

She got off a stop early, and went to the Coles on the corner there, and then walked home. The sky was blue, though the horizon threatened rain, and Joan pulled her scarf tighter around her neck against the wind. Around her, the street moved with the slowness typical of Melbourne.

She felt the bullet rip past her before she heard the noise. It smacked into the wall by her head and she threw herself to the ground. There was a crunch from the groceries.

Three more shots were fired, shattering the air with their noise. The car raced off into the distance, leaving Joan lying on her belly on the footpath with brick dust on her back, squinting to find out a numberplate.

Sherlock wasn’t home when she finally got there, and instead there was a koala without its guts in an aquarium of formaldehyde. Despite the airtight lid, Joan could smell it. She made herself a pot of tea and escaped into the living room.

The pot was empty when Sherlock came home.

“What happened?” she asked as soon as the door was closed behind her and she had managed to take Joan’s appearance in.

“I got shot at.”

There was a knock at the door, and Mycroft entered before either of them said he could. Joan had to wonder if he’d been lurking, waiting for both of them to get home.

“What is it, Mycroft?” snapped Sherlock impatiently.

“You’ll want to look at this,” he passed a file across to Sherlock and sat down heavily. The double-breasted jacket did nothing for his figure.

Joan watched Sherlock’s face. Nothing changed as she read; the only movement was the slight flit of her eyes from one side of the paper to the other. She flipped the page to look at the one under, found nothing of interest, and looked up at her brother.

“Why do I care about the murder of a Mr Matthew Morstan?” Joan gave out a little noise that was not really a gasp.

Both Holmes’ looked at her.

“He’s connected to that man who died here last week, Anthony Papadakis. And the attempted murder of your Joan,” said Mycroft. Joan scarcely noticed the pronoun affixed to her name. She hadn’t questioned what Sherlock was to her, yet, what term to use when introducing her. The people who knew them understood, or thought they did, and other people didn’t need to be told.

“He was my... I knew him, we were in the army together,” said Joan, not able to bring herself to saying the truth. Mycroft squinted at her. Secrets couldn’t be kept from the Holmes’, and she truly didn’t mean for it to be a secret, but it was in the past and they wouldn’t know how to respond properly. Not saying something could be easier than dealing with an uncomfortable attempt to talk about it.

“Really,” said Sherlock mildly. She flicked the file open again and reread it.

“Someone was after both of you,” said Mycroft. “Only they got to Morstan already. I think that Papadakis trying to warn you.”

“Who’s trying to get us?” asked Joan, and then, because for a moment she forgot who was in the room with her and thought she should show she cared about the man, “When did he die?”

“Two days ago. The funeral is this afternoon, if you want to go.” Joan shook her head. Going would mean meeting his family. There would be small talk, and an awkward cluster of strangers near the table covered with finger food. There might even be people she had known, once. It wasn’t something she cared to deal with.

“Right,” Mycroft cleared his throat and Sherlock tossed the file onto the table.

“Why do they want to kill my Joan?” If no one had commented on Mycroft’s use of the pronoun, it was certain there would be no comment about Sherlock’s. Joan thought it was slightly endearing, and something had twisted in her stomach at the way Sherlock’s lips had twitched up as she said it.

Mycroft coughed, and exchanged a significant glance with Sherlock.

“What is it?”

“I hoped you would be able to tell me. But, you no longer talk to Morstan, so that lead is dead.” There was no question there, Mycroft already knew that she did not.

“We lost contact before I was shipped home.”

Mycroft stood, and it was a picture to watch him unfolding from the low seat, brushing down his his jacket and buttoning it up.

“I’ve stationed some men outside. Try not to get shot at. Sherlock, clean your gun.” He straightened his tie, nodded to Joan, and left the flat in silence. Sherlock was watching her, cat-like, and Joan was watching herself, trying to put together a string of words.

 “How did you know him?” asked Sherlock, attempting to casually toss the question out, as though she didn’t care if it were answered or not.

“I,” began Joan, and then didn’t know how to keep going.

“I know you had a life, before me.”

“We were engaged.” She said it too fast, but Sherlock caught the words anyway. “We were engaged,” she repeated, and added, determinedly, “And in love.”  With Matthew, she’d forgotten Sherlock. It was strange, to realise that. She wasn’t sure how she’d ever forgotten about the tall, dark-haired mystery with her now.

They said nothing, while Sherlock processed. It had started raining, and the water trailed down the windows in little vertical rivers.

“What happened?” She wasn’t asking about the end, she wanted the whole story.

“We met, well, he got a bit of wood splintered into his arm and it got infected. I fixed him up, and... We got engaged. There was never a ring, but we talked and wrote and planned our wedding. Then he got shipped off to a different part of the country, and I got shot. I don’t know what happened to him. I sent him a letter and it got rerouted back to me.”

“You didn’t go looking?” Joan looked up sharply.

“What if he was dead? No,” she said, looking back at her fingers. “I found he was alive when I was back home, and by then it seemed pointless. Whatever we’d had wasn’t going to last into civilian life. I didn’t hear from him again, and he didn’t hear from me.” The file made a scraping noise against the coffee table as she picked it up. His photo burned at her, reminding her of the guilt and the what-could-have-been, the road not taken. “I should have told you.”

“It’s okay,” said Sherlock gently, touching her hand.

Matthew or no, things were right in the world, with Sherlock at her side.

“I have no idea what they’d want. I did my tour. Did another. Came home early.” Joan shrugged emphatically, and wished there was more tea. Tea would have been nice to have, given the situation. It would be something to do with her hands, at least. She let the file fall back onto the coffee table and shoved her hands under her thighs. “With him, I thought there was a future. White picket fence kind of deal.”

“I didn’t know you wanted children,” said Sherlock, and it was a testament to their relationship that she was even able to admit to not knowing something.

“I don’t. I didn’t.” Joan stared at her lap. “I don’t know. I guess it doesn’t matter, now.”

“We can adopt.” That caused a startled laugh to leap from Joan.

“What?”

“If you want.”

“Sherlock, you’re bewildered when people are sad at a family member being murdered. You are not ready for children.” Sherlock opened her mouth to speak, but Joan stopped her, pulling a hand out from under her leg to hold up. “No, this is not a discussion we are having now. I was merely musing on the past. Okay?”

“Okay.” Sherlock looked relieved, but then turned her attention to the file again, although she had flipped through it all and already had all the important information stored away in her brain. “Matthew might have friends and family who know something.”

“You want me to come with you to the funeral?” The answer to that was obvious. Sherlock speaking with the relatives of the deceased was always a disaster.

“They might be willing to speak with someone who knew him.”

“I don’t want to go the funeral, Sherlock.” She looked at her with imploring eyes.

“I won’t talk to anyone. I can find out a lot by looking. But you’ll recognise people, and know things I can’t. Please?” The question was tacked on uncertainly, and Sherlock’s eyes skittered over Joan’s face.

“Okay. Where’s your gun?” Sherlock leaned back in her chair and grabbed her pistol carelessly, and tossed it over. 

“Where’s yours?”

“In my room,” she said. Carrying it around in her everyday was more likely to make people nervous than be any use, so she left it at home, ready to grab if someone broke into the house. Legally, she doubted if she was even allowed to have it, but it wasn’t as though anyone she knew was going to tell on her. Around Sherlock, guns were often necessary.

She got up, Sherlock texting her brother to find out where the funeral was, and Joan mounting the stairs to find her gun and put on a jacket that would adequately hide the fact that she was packing.

Neither of them had particularly fancy guns. Sherlock’s was a police-issue Glock, and Joan a Smith & Wesson. It made her feel like she was in a western movie, and occasionally contemplated getting a proper cowboy hat. She had an Akubra stuffed into her closet somewhere, but the brim was bent beyond repair.

There was already a taxi waiting outside when she went downstairs, and Sherlock was watching her, torn between impatience for the case and concern for Joan.

“Are you alright?” she asked, holding the door open for her. Joan slid in.

“I’ve been shot before, Sherlock. You don’t need to be concerned.”

“Concern is usual when one’s girlfriend gets shot, I believe.”

“I got shot at. The bullets didn’t hit me. And I’m your girlfriend, am I?” The driver glanced at them in his rear-view before pulling away from the curb.

“Are you not?”

“We just haven’t discussed it.”

“I didn’t realise there was a discussion to have. You’re my girlfriend.” Joan’s phone was buzzing in her pocket.

“Okay, I’m your girlfriend.” She swiped to accept the call. “Yes?”

“I need to get a statement from you. I’m sending a sergeant over.”

“I’m not at home.” Lestrade sighed.

“When will you be home?”

“I don’t know. Someone shot at me three times, it was drive-by, they were in a dark blue hatchback, and I didn’t get a plate number.”

“Where are you going?”

“To a funeral. We’ve got a lead.”

“Already?”

“Sherlock’s brother helped us out.” Lestrade was silent on the other end, thinking.

“Right,” he said eventually, “call me if you have anything I need to know.” He hung up.

“Lestrade is a tiresome man sometimes, isn’t he?” muttered Sherlock.

“You only say that because you dislike men.”

“They’re sloppy.” Joan shrugged.

“I think they’re alright.”

“I got that from the fact we’re going to your ex’s funeral.” Joan was about to throw back a biting comment when she noticed the smile playing at Sherlock’s lips.

“Humour about death is not usual, Sherlock.”

“Except with you,” she said, snaking out a hand to twine their fingers together. Sherlock lifted Joan’s hand and kissed her knuckles. Her hands were very steady.

“So much for PTSD,” she commented. Of course, being shot at on the street wasn’t the worst of what Joan had seen, and she would have felt an odd sense of shame if it had been that which sent her over the edge.

Probably the nightmares would come back, though. Gunfire always triggered that. A part of her was glad she had stopped seeing her therapist, so she didn’t have to talk about this kind of thing anymore. Another part of her knew that was unhealthy, but most of her was focused on Sherlock’s hand in hers, and nothing else much mattered. 


	24. Chapter 24

They stood to the side of the rows of people sitting in neat, dark colours, Sherlock’s eyes darting over everyone and Joan watching more slowly, examining each face for familiarity. One vaguely familiar face noticed her and caught her eye with a sad little smile. Weakly, she returned it.

Sherlock nudged her.

“Who’s that?”

“His grandmother.” Joan recognised her only from a photograph, having never met the woman. Matthew had been an orphan when Joan met him, and part of the reason they bonded was over the loss of family. He hadn’t been particularly close to his siblings, either, and if it weren’t for a few photos Joan wouldn’t have known they even existed. “Next is his brother, his older sister and in the row in front of them is his brother in law, and that herd.” There were four children sitting with colouring books. Only the eldest was ignoring the crayons and staring sombrely forward at the casket.

The current speaker, Joan had missed his name, was reciting a Bible verse, which made Joan cringe. Matthew had vehemently refused to believe in any god.

“Who’s the woman crying?” There were several women crying. “The blonde one.” Joan saw her. She was skinny, with a pointed nose and long blond hair that fell loose over her back.  

“I don’t know.”

“She has a ring. Diamond centre, two sapphires, one on either side. Engagement ring.” Joan groaned against Sherlock, her fingers digging into the detective’s knee. The day had already gone on too long.

“That would be the family heirloom. Matthew’s, to give to his wife. He was going to give it to me once we got home.”

“Ah,” said Sherlock, and she took Joan’s hand in hers, reminding her that it didn’t matter, and that it was only the pain of old memories and old emotions that was aching at her now. Then, in a clipped whisper, “I need to talk to her.”

 

They filed past the coffin, and Joan didn’t put a flower on top of it. There was food waiting immediately there, but before she could reach it Joan found herself stopped by someone.

“Excuse me, dear, are you Joan Wesson?”

“That’s a type of gun, I’m Watson,” corrected Joan.

“You were his beau over in Afgahnistan.”

“Sorry, who are you?”

“His aunt.”

Sherlock tapped her fingers against Joan’s back in distraction, staring across at the line of people shuffling around the family.

“I wasn’t aware Matthew had so much family,” said Joan.

“After his parents died things fell apart,” said Matthew’s aunt, conspiratorially. “He didn’t like to talk to them much.”

“I know what that’s like,” said Joan.

“What’s the name of his fiancée?” asked Sherlock, looming over.

“Karen.”

Joan looked over over at Karen. She was very tall, and if she did not look so much like a bird perhaps she could have been a model in her younger years. Something about the way her face was set out was off-putting, but perhaps Joan had spent too long being in love with Sherlock’s high cheekbones and arching eyebrows.

“How did you know he was engaged? I didn’t know he kept in contact with you.”

“The ring,” said Joan, simply, giving a thin-lipped smile and walking away.

Sherlock followed close behind, and that felt good. There was a problem, and so they’d fix it, together.

“Mr Mortsan?”

“Yes?”

“So sorry for your loss,” said Joan, quickly, and then Sherlock spoke.

“Do you know any reason why someone would want your brother dead?”

“Excuse me?”

“He was murdered. Surely you might know something.”

“Is this really the place for this conversation?” Sherlock looked down her nose at him, and he relented. “He was a very private man. Karen may be more help. Are you with the police? They said they’d interview her after the funeral.”

“We are, but time is short,” said Joan, before Sherlock could make some remark at how incompetent that group were. Her quickness of response took no thinking about, anymore. Her conversation flowed easily around Sherlock’s, with Sherlock’s hand on the small of her back gently nudging her towards or away a particular line of enquiry. Her fingers flicked against her spine as the person talking to Karen moved away. “Thank you for their time.”

“Karen?”

“Yes?”

“We’re with the police,” began Joan.

“You’re not the officers who spoke with me the other day.”

“No. There’s been some developments, and we were wondering if we could do that interview now.” Karen nodded, and led them away from the group of people. Joan and Sherlock stood so that others couldn’t see her, protecting her from anyone wanting to pass on their condolences.

“Do you know if Matthew was tangled up in anything bad?”

“No. Matty was the perfect guy.” Once, Matthew had punched a guy, breaking his nose, because he tried to insist on giving him a nickname. His name was Matthew. Never Matty.

“Did he ever mention an Anthony Papadakis?” asked Joan without prompting.

“No, not at all.”

“Did he change his habits in the last few weeks? Phone calls at strange times, meetings he didn’t have before, that kind of thing?”

“No,” said Karen, and Sherlock’s hand balled into a fist.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.” Sherlock glared, and she relented. “He got a phone call a few nights before he died. He said he needed to go out. It was late, I was about to go to bed, I have no idea where he went or who he saw. I promise.”

“Is his phone in evidence?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you call him Matty?” asked Joan.

“Joan,” warned Sherlock, her voice low in her ear.

“When I knew him he hated nicknames.”

“Oh, you knew him,” she said with an honest, wide smile. “When?”

“In the army.” She kept her face stern, not caring to spare a smile for the woman.

“What’s your name?”

“Joan.”

“He never mentioned you.”

Sherlock yanked Joan away only scarcely in time. Red caught her eye as she was dragged away from the funeral, but Joan’s eyes darted away and he left her alone to be scolded by Sherlock.

“Leave her alone.”

“He never fucking mentioned me.”

“You haven’t mentioned him, either, until now.”

“I haven’t mentioned anyone,” snarled Joan.

“Except for Red, and Tony and McKenzie and...” Sherlock let her voice fade away pointedly.

Over dinner Joan had mentioned one person or another in some story, her face lighting up with the memory of something funny, or closing down at something she preferred forgotten. But the stories had been told, between murders and robberies and lost rabbits, just as Sherlock had occasionally shared stories of the years after high school, the ones she cared to remember. She was much more controlled about it than Joan, less sentimental, but the stories had been there. But never had Joan mentioned Matthew. It hadn’t been by design. She’d simply moved on.

Joan leaned against a wall, and ran a hand through her hair. It kept too rigorously to its shape, and the action did nothing to mess it up. Sherlock pocketed her phone, and reached a hand to hers.

“I’ve called Lestrade about the phone. Come on, you should eat.”


	25. Chapter 25

They walked down the street from the funeral until Sherlock decided they should stop at a little Indian restaurant that was nearly empty. ‘Dinner’ involved Joan eating and Sherlock sitting back in the booth, eyes closed, thinking hard. Joan kept her mind carefully blank, focusing on her food and being quiet. Sherlock would know if she was thinking too hard, and it was difficult enough for the detective to focus in the noisy bar, even if they were in a secluded corner and the place was far emptier than it could be.

Joan sipped her drink and ate her food. Tennis played on the TV over the counter, and Joan kept half an eye on it, not really knowing who was playing or which of the Grand Slam tournaments it was. The grunts and thwacks could be heard as a soft beat to the rhythm of the room.

The funeral had not been as bad as it could have been, Sherlock had not been as bad as she could have been, and there had been no incidents. Despite that, Joan was glad she could feel the gun, heavy against her lower back. She was glad, too, for the sight of Sherlock’s gun, peeping out from under her jacket in the hollow of her side. The legality aside, it gave Joan some comfort to know there was power available, should she need it.

Sherlock’s phone buzzed, fell silent, and buzzed again. Sherlock ignored it, and so Joan’s phone rang. Finding a text from Lestrade, she typed a response without asking Sherlock what to say. There was nothing to report, she told him, and she’d call when there was. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open in a question as Joan put the phone away, and Joan shook her head. Silent conversations were easy, now, after the time she’d spent with Sherlock. She pushed her empty plate away, and stood up.

The street was still bright with light as they walked. Joan was surprised when Sherlock reached out for her hand. Normally, when Sherlock was deep in thought, physical contact was not okay, not even in the brushing of fingers when passing a cup of tea over. Joan leaned into her a little, bumping their hips together, and happy for that moment despite the day’s events that had brought them to it.

They took a turn down a side street to get to a tram. Joan had a song in her head and was replaying the first few bars over and over again to try and work it out. She was barely concentrating on the path in front of her. She didn’t see the two men who rushed at them. Too late, Joan reached for her gun, pulling it out of the waistband of her jeans, but the man’s fist cut across her face and she smashed the ground.

Dimly, she was aware of Sherlock nearby. Worry gripped her, remembering the scrawny kid she’d sat next to in maths.

A foot caught in her stomach, and the other man threw his fist down at her. She grabbed his arm before the punch could connect and hauled upright by his arm, kicking against his shin too soon and they both tumbled down together, grappling messily at each other.

Joan wriggled out of his grasp and slammed her elbow down into his back. With a grunt he fell onto her legs. Before she could pull them out from under him, the other kicked at her ribs, and she was dragged down again. His nails pulled roughly at her, a boot connected with her bad shoulder. Joan writhed, not wanting to give up.

The punches kept coming, and then they stopped. There was the sound of a body being slammed against the wall. Joan tried to open her eyes, but everything was fuzzy and her mouth filled with blood. She sank back against the dumpster and drifted away to the sound of fists against flesh.   

 -

Both men down, Sherlock rushed to Joan’s side. The woman groaned, her hair thick with blood. Sherlock fired her pistol into the air, rather than waste time actually phoning the police, and rolled Joan over into the recovery position. She was making noise, at least, but Sherlock wasn’t taking any chances. Pressing a kiss to her forehead, she went to the prone bodies and pulled out their wallets. The IDs were fake, but Sherlock recognised the work.

Joan was nearly unconscious, and the two men weren’t going anywhere. The police would be there in moments. Joan would never know if Sherlock rushed off to solve the case now, and she would understand. It was Joan’s life on the line, here. Instead, she sat, focusing her nervous energy on stroking Joan’s hair, muttering that everything would be okay.

Lestrade wasn’t with the police. Without him to tell her off, Sherlock snapped at the officers as they took her statement. Eventually, after more whining from Sherlock than was strictly necessary, Joan had been patched up, asked questions, and both were in the back of a police car hurtling towards Baker Street.

 -

“Mrs Hudson!” yelled Sherlock. The lady poked her head out around the corner of her door.

“Oh! Sherlock my dear, what’s happened?” Joan was awake, but only barely, and leaning heavily on Sherlock’s shoulders.

“I need to go out. She needs to be checked on every hour.”

“Of course, dear.” Mrs Hudson hurried up the stairs behind Sherlock. After the first flight, Sherlock didn’t want to take the time needed to haul Joan up another flight of stairs, so she gestured to Mrs Hudson to open the door to her own bedroom. The landlady didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow, even though the neat room appeared completely devoid of Joan. They still kept to their own beds most of the time, since Joan needed her sleep and Sherlock often kept bizarre hours.

She arranged Joan gently on the mattress while Mrs Hudson bustled about, fluffing the pillows and closing the curtains.

“Sherlock,” mumbled Joan.

“Shh,” whispered Sherlock, leaning close to breathe her in. Her hair was still crusted with blood, and Sherlock wished she could wash it away. “I think I know what’s happening. I need to go. Mrs Hudson is here.” Joan reached out a hand, gripping Sherlock’s wrist with more strength than she looked like she had.

“Don’t go.” Sherlock kissed her very gently above her bruised eye.

“I have to.” Joan grumbled something into the pillow, but she released her grip around Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock pulled the sheets over Joan.

At the front door she reached for her coat and scarf, only to realise she was still wearing them.

Mrs Hudson met her on the landing.

“Every hour, okay? Wake her up, ask her what her name is, where she is, what date it is, who the Prime Minister is...” Mrs Hudson put a gentle hand on Sherlock’s arm.

“I can look after her. Go and fix this, Sherlock.” Sherlock was grinding her jaw, but stopped abruptly as Mrs Hudson’s kind eyes met hers. “I know you can.”

“Thank you.”

“Go on, now,” said Mrs Hudson. Sherlock nodded, and slammed the door behind her. Mrs Hudson went back into her apartment to get a book, and then traipsed back up the stairs to 221B. For a time, she cleaned, straightening the kitchen and neatening the stacks of papers left around. For two girls, thought Mrs Hudson, they were frightfully messy.

Joan woke with a grumble and took the Anzac biscuit Mrs Hudson offered, answering her questions with a tired smile and a question if she could go back to sleep.

Mrs Hudson let her, and settled down in Joan’s armchair to read. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of the chapters I wish I had a beta for, because I loathe writing action sequences and most often avoid them. In the first episode of BBC Sherlock Mrs Hudson says there is a second bedroom upstairs. I have only a vague idea of the layout of their apartment, but somehow there is another level with another bedroom, and that is Joan's.


	26. Chapter 26

Sherlock double checked that the door was shut and locked, and hung her coat up tiredly. The flat was filled with the soft yellow glow of the dawn. There was a draft, and she looked up sharply, but the window was latched and locked. Safe.

The phone in her pocket buzzed.

“Mycroft?”

Her scarf fell off its hook and she sighed as she stooped to pick it up.

“I was so close. Tomorrow. Okay. Yeah. Bye.” Sherlock stared at the wall. It was dusty. Sherlock noticed many things, but had never before noticed that walls could get dusty. Vaguely, she thought that would be a useful fact in some crime, perhaps, one day.

She didn’t know why she was just standing there. Joan was waiting for her, asleep in her bed. Sherlock’s bed. Tangled in Sherlock’s sheets, hugging Sherlock’s pillow against her.

Mrs Hudson was asleep in the armchair. She was too old for that kind of thing, and Sherlock found a glass of water and a box of Nurofen and set them on the table next to her, just in case.

She walked to the bathroom and shrugged off her shirt, leaving it in a pile on the floor, torn and bloody. There was a long cut along her upper arm. Probably it would need stitches. Awkwardly, she put a few bandaids across it instead. Joan would frown and click her tongue at it, but Sherlock didn’t want to wake her up to help her.

Despite what people such as Anderson thought, killing did not come easily to Sherlock. She preferred the blood on her hands to belong to an animal, and for the bullets fired from her gun to only hit the wall. It was the mystery, not the violence, that intrigued Sherlock.

For Joan, though, she was willing. If it meant Joan would be safe.

She wasn’t, though. The mystery was not solved. The mystery was darker than Sherlock had imagined it would be.

She washed the blood from her hands, wrapped a bandage around her arm, and took some pills for the pain.

A small part of her brain reminded her of a very different sort of drug and the type of feeling that could give her. Quickly, she turned away from the mirror and towards the bedroom, where Joan was waiting amongst the pale white sheets. Sherlock crawled in next to her, and fell asleep as soon as her arm was wrapped protectively around the smaller woman. 


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote this chapter several times. At one point, it didn’t exist at all. I got rid of the second half; I completely changed the second half. It’s Christmas, for me, and this is my present to you. Merry Christmas; I hope, at the least, the food is good and the alcohol runs freely.

“What happened?” Sherlock groaned awake.

“Hmm?”

“Why did they want to kill me?”

“I don’t know,” she said. It was only half a lie, but she wanted to see Mycroft before settling on a final answer. She kissed Joan’s shoulder through her shirt in apology.

“My head hurts,” said Joan, after a bit, and Sherlock chuckled, a low rumble in her chest that turned into a moan of pain as it moved her arm.

“I thought you knew how to fight,” she teased.

“There were two of them.” Sherlock drew her closer.

“I’m glad you’re alright.”

“I did say my head hurts.”

Sherlock’s body was aching all over. It hadn’t been a pleasant night for her.

“We should get up.”

“Why?” The bed was warm and Sherlock’s body was comfortable against her back.

“Because Mycroft will be here soon.”

“Oh.” She sat up and instantly wished she hadn’t. Sherlock followed her, hand warm against Joan’s back.

“Easy, now. You did get beaten up pretty good.”

“There were two of them,” repeated Joan.

“I know.”

“How... When did you learn to fight? Properly, I mean.”

“I read a book.”

“And finished your lessons outside bars practicing on drunkards, I’ll bet,” said Joan, dryly. She pulled back the sheets and swung her legs out. She was still wearing her clothes, she noticed, and her shirt was skewed across her torso. A pain shot along her shoulders as she twisted to right it.

“Are you alright?”

 “I think so.” Sherlock crawled off the bed and came to stand by her.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to catch you if you fall.”

Joan was about to make a joke, but then she caught sight of the long line of blood down her arm. Sherlock was looking at the bed, where there were bloody smudges against the white.

“What the hell, Sherlock?” she stumbled upright, too fast, and Sherlock had to catch her with her good arm. They both tipped backwards, and Sherlock slammed into the dresser, hard.

“What did you do?” said Joan, staring at her.

“I fixed it,” she said, trying to force the words out with the same easy certainty she did everything else. Her back ached from being hit by the sharp edge of the dresser. “You’re okay, now.” Joan frowned, but didn't push.

"Come on.”

She pulled Sherlock to the bathroom and unwound the bandage from where it had slipped down to Sherlock’s elbow. Fossicking through a draw she replaced the bandaids with butterfly stitches, lining them up neatly down the cut, before wrapping several layers of bandaging around her arm. With professional disregard for Sherlock’s half nakedness she worked, her hands were gentle and cool against Sherlock's skin.

Sherlock watched her lips as she tended to the cut. Joan bit her lips slightly, and then licked it in that curious way she had, by pushing her tongue against her lower lip and then pressing her lips together to wet them both. The action mesmerised Sherlock, and without thinking about it at all Sherlock curled her free hand around the nape of Joan's neck and tilted her head upright to kiss her.

"Is this really the time?" asked Joan with a soft smile, her fingers still brushing Sherlock's elbow.

"Why not?" asked Sherlock, and kissed her again, ignoring the slightly stale taste of sleep still lingering and breathing in everything that was pure Joan. The slip of her tongue across hers was familiar, and the teasing bites against her lips stirred inside of her, and then she was pushing her hands greedily up under Joan's shirt, desperate to have it off.

Her skin was soft and smooth and Sherlock licked and sucked along her collarbone, hands wasting no time in reaching for her breasts, rubbing gently at her nipples. At a groan in Joan's throat she pinched a little harder, pressing her mouth more firmly and leaving a hot, red mark on Joan’s neck. Nails scraped at her hips and hands tugged at her shirt, and as she pulled away to let it slip off of her she caught sight of Joan's lips, swollen and red, her pupils huge and dark.

Joan paused, Sherlock's singlet scarcely lifted away from her belly.

"What?" asked Sherlock, suddenly afraid that something was wrong, that it was too soon, that despite the months of dancing Joan wanted to wait a little longer. She could feel herself growing wet between her legs, and did not know how she would cope being told no. "We can," she began, never wanting to push Joan further than she could cope, but suddenly arms were wrapped around her hips and buttocks, and she was shoved up onto the bench. There was the clatter of bottles as they fell, and the edge of the sink dug into her left thigh.

Hastily, Joan slipped the singlet up over Sherlock's head, smiling at the static that pushed Sherlock's fringe up into a more hectic frizz.

"You could have asked."

Joan ignored her, drinking in Sherlock's body. She had seen her naked before, but not like this, nipples hard and a slight bit of dark hair trailing up to curl around her belly button, all spread out before her. She dipped her head, licking and kissing as she traced the curve of Sherlock's stomach, feeling the muscles shiver beneath the skin with delight. Sherlock's thighs fell apart, draping themselves over Joan's shoulders.

She leaned forward and grabbed Joan's head by her hair, tangling her fingers in the coarse curls still brown with blood. She moaned as nails were dragged lightly down her back, and lips sucked the skin of her breast, a tongue darting to trace to curve of her.  A thumb pressed into her hip, a hand curling around her thigh so close to where Sherlock wanted it to be that she bucked and groaned.

"Please do not toy with me, Joan," she said, certain that Joan could feel how wet she was even through the material of her underwear. Joan lifted her mouth from Sherlock's chest and smiled up at her, and the look sent a wave of pleasure rippling through Sherlock.

"This is your first, isn't it?"

"Pardon?"

She really wasn't in a frame of mind to have Joan asking questions. She wanted her mouth back on her body, her hands sliding over her skin, she wanted something she didn't know how to properly articulate.

"Your first time." A kiss was touched to her collarbone. The corner of the benchtop was hard against Joan's stomach, but she paid it no mind. Perhaps they should have stayed in the bedroom, where Sherlock's back wouldn't be pressed against a mirror that needed cleaning, one hand clinging to the edge as though she were afraid she were about to tumble off.

"Please," muttered Sherlock, not answering her question. Perhaps she hadn't even heard it.

Joan traced her way back down Sherlock's body, fingers curling around the band of her underwear and pulling them down. Sherlock lifted up from the bench until her underwear were dangling uselessly from one ankle. Joan payed them no mind, simply kept teasing Sherlock. Her fingers ran over the coarseness of Sherlock's hair and over the softness of her inner thigh, and Sherlock bucked and moaned, knuckles white from clinging to the bathroom bench.

"Please," she said again.

"So polite," murmured Joan, and then dipped a finger into the wet warmth.

"Oh," gasped Sherlock, and Joan touched her again, so lightly it was barely anything but Sherlock shifted to be closer. Joan grabbed her left ankle before her foot could slip from its shaky purchase on the bench. The position was not right, and she slipped to her knees, pulling Sherlock's right leg so it rested gently over her shoulder. Sherlock whined at the loss of contact, but quickly curled her right leg around Joan. Gently, Joan pushed it away. Its embrace would hinder too much, and Sherlock, realising this, let it slip down to hang at a pathetic angle, half brushing against Joan's torso.

Joan slipped a finger into her suddenly, the tight wetness welcoming her into a sharp gasp from Sherlock. She twisted slowly, gently, pushing a thumb against her labia and then drawing her apart so she could reach in with her lips to Sherlock's clit. The muscles in Sherlock's thighs tensed around her shoulders, and she could feel toes digging into her shoulders as Sherlock struggled to keep her place on the bench, wanting to push forward into Joan without falling.

A hand on her hip stilled her, and she relaxed, trusting Joan, and then forgetting all senses beyond Joan between her legs, licking and gently sucking, fingers strocking and sliding in and out.

"Fuck," she began, not knowing what to say, how else to tell Joan to please never stop. She felt herself filled up with Joan's fingers, taken completely over by her tongue, and then she was shuddering and gasping her way to a soaring pleasure.

A tongue eased over her, lapping at her to bring her gently down.

Sherlock felt a hand on hers, and suddenly it felt stiff and strange, tangled in Joan's hair without an inkling as to when she had put it there.

They stared at each other, and Sherlock felt a sudden shame that Joan was still in her jeans while Sherlock was naked and panting, and all she could think was if they had time for Joan to do that again.

There was a knock at the door before either of them could speak.

"Sherlock? Are you in there? Your brother is here."

Joan let out a sigh at Mrs Hudson's voice. Her stomach was tight and her groin coiled and aching.

"That was," began Sherlock.

"He doesn't look happy," interrupted Mrs Hudson.

"Yes, yes, we'll be right out," snapped Sherlock. Her back made a noise as she peeled away from the mirror. "I'm sorry," she said to Joan.

"Not your fault," said Joan. She wondered how she could get revenge on Mycroft.

"Later. I promise." Sherlock reached out a hand and they both stood. Lips touched against hers and Joan nodded into them.

"Okay," she sighed. "Later."


	28. Chapter 28

Mycroft looked drawn, apologetic, and didn’t even raise his eyebrows at their flushed faces and hastily pulled on clothes. His presence was enough for Joan to put the slow ache in her groin to the back of her mind. They would get back to that later, she promised herself, Sherlock’s words echoing in a giddy dance around her mind. 

“Moriarty’s back,” said Mycroft, and all happiness fell from her.

“What?”

“I thought so,” said Sherlock. She sat down heavily.

“You knew?” exclaimed Joan.

“That’s what happened to Morstan, and Anthony Papadaki. I wasn’t sure, I didn’t want to say anything in case it wasn’t true.”

“There were rumours. We weren’t sure of them,” added Mycroft.

“You should have told me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Can’t we get a fucking break?” snapped Joan, and stormed into the kitchen.

“Can you destroy her?” asked Sherlock of her brother, her voice mild, as though discussing the weather.

“Don’t you think I’ve tried? She’s not exactly poorly connected.”

“To destroy Moriarty would be the feather in our caps, the very pinnacle in our careers. I would perhaps settle down, take up bowls.” She arranged her dressing gown more neatly, grimacing at the pain in her arm. “I thought perhaps this mess with Papadakis was caused by her, but what could I say without proof? She is female, and a professor, and she keeps her nose clean.”

“You do realise that her plan is you,” said Mycroft. “She tried to get Joan, but I doubt that’s her end game.”

“Using me to get to Sherlock?” Joan had come back to stand in the doorway. “And you didn’t think you could say anything? This is Jennifer fucking Moriarty. You don’t need proof to tell _me_.”

“Joan,” said Sherlock, stepping up to her and pulling her into an embrace. “Joan, I’m sorry.”

“Damn right you are.” Her voice was muffled by Sherlock’s shoulder.

“It will be okay. We’ll sort it out.” Joan relaxed for just a moment, and then the toaster popped and she pulled away, nearly grateful for the intrusion.

“This isn’t fair,” she muttered as she scraped jam across the toast. She shoved a slice into Sherlock’s hands and sat down in her armchair in a huff. “One week. That’s all I’d like. One quiet week with my girlfriend watching stupid TV shows and solving safe mysteries like missing rabbits.”

And she’d like to actually get around to having sex with her. She'd like to linger in bed, tasting and touching and learning each other completely.

The Holmeses watched her nonplussed.

“Do you have a plan?” she asked, roughly brushing crumbs from her lap onto the floor.

“You should go away,” said Mycroft in his easy drawl.

“What?”

“Visit Bali, or New Zealand. Or even further. Perhaps Germany. Norway.”

“Just me? Without Sherlock?”

“Yes.” Joan fixed him with a withering glare.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mycroft.”

“Joan, those people yesterday, they were Moriarty’s. She wants to kill you,” said Sherlock.

“I’m not leaving.”

“But,” tried Sherlock.

“Shut up. I’m staying. Now, do we have a plan?”


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is about to take a sharp nose-dive back into BBC canon, and since I don't care to rewrite that which has already been on film there are going to be some abrupt scene changes and near-complete lack of plot description. If certain things are bewildering feel free to point them out so I can fill in the important gaps.

In the end, there wasn’t anything to be done except wait. Joan had a shower, finally cleaning the blood from her hair, and then caught up on the news on her laptop. The two Holmes’ filled each other in on what they knew. Moriarty had been busy, and always one step ahead.

Mycroft disappeared to do his job, Sherlock nearly tripped in her eagerness to answer the door when the bell rang. It was Lestrade, and there were kidnapped children to be found.

Children were the worst. Sherlock was bad with children, except when she could bribe them to find something. Children were a world wrapped up in sentiment, and Sherlock treated them with the same mix of interest she did any case and complete lack of care she did any human other than Joan.

Lestrade protected Joan from the other officers and Joan protected Sherlock from everyone, and Sherlock found the children.

They made a good team, thought Joan, and then the children screamed at Sherlock’s face.

She hauled on Sherlock’s arm, dragging her away from the little room. The door swung closed on the scared whimpers of the children, and Sherlock shook Joan’s hand away from her and stalked across to the other side of the room.

The world outside was black, and Sherlock felt an uncomfortable writhing in her stomach. Something big, something she didn’t know. She hated not knowing.

She felt everyone's eyes on her, even Joan's, trying to work out if maybe she had been the one behind the kidnapping of the children. Of course she wasn't, and they were fools for even thinking it.

“Really good work you did, finding those kids like that,” said Donovan. Sherlock knew where she was leading with that, and didn't care to hear the rest. “Really amazing.”

Sherlock turned to leave.

“Unbelievable, even," said Donovan.

Sherlock’s step faltered, and no one but Joan saw it.

“What is it?” she asked once they were alone on the street, hailing a taxi.

“I didn't do anything to those children," said Sherlock.

"I know that." Joan reached for Sherlock's hand, but the fingers she’d gotten used to holding slipped away from hers.

The pale yellow taxo came up beside the police station, and Sherlock got in.

“I need to think.” Joan nodded and stepped back.

“Keep me in the loop.” Sherlock gave a curt nod as Joan closed the door.

The night was cold and the case didn’t appear to be over. It was going to be a long one. Joan hugged her coat to her body one-handed as she waved to the next taxi.

 

-

 

Joan watched Sherlock in her dark shirt and jacket. It emphasised her body in all the right places even as she sat stiffly upright, face a picture of placidity.

“They’ll be deciding,” said Sherlock.

“Deciding?”

“Whether to come back with a warrant and arrest me.”

Joan faltered.

“You didn’t do anything.”

“I know that. You know that.”

“Can Mycroft do anything?”

“He’s not god,” spat Sherlock. Mycroft could, perhaps, but by then it would be too late. Too public. “Lestrade thinks he knows, but he doesn’t know if he knows for sure. Moriarty has designed this game very well.” Sherlock gritted her teeth and glanced at the window. “I’m surprised he’s not already called the press to stand outside and wait.”

“What can I do?” Sherlock laughed at the absurdity of the idea that Joan could do anything. She wasn’t stupid, not entirely, but this game was so far above them that even Sherlock was just now barely grasping at the edges of Moriarty’s plan.

“Nothing.”

“Sherlock,” snapped Joan, “I don’t want the world believing that you’re stupid, or wrong. You’re not a fraud. I don’t want that to be your fate.”

“You’re worried they’re right.”

Joan slapped her, once, hard. It felt as though Sherlock’s cheekbone sliced through her palm.

“Fuck you, Sherlock. I’m not leaving.”

Joan glared at her, this girl she’d known since high school, for even proposing the idea that she would abandon her now. Then she kissed her, gently, on the cheek where she’d slapped her.

“Do what you do. Work things out before they come back and take you.”

 

Her palm was still stinging from the slap when she curled her hand into a fist and punched the Chief Superintendent. 


	30. Chapter 30

Sherlock felt like she was falling, and if Sherlock was a step behind Moriarty then Joan was not going to be any help.

Mycroft hadn’t called. The police were no longer safe. Jennifer Moriarty had an entire other life sketched out for her to fall into, and all the world seemed a puzzle missing pieces.

Then something clicked into place in Sherlock’s head, and the entire game unfurled for Sherlock to see. She took a step.

“Where are you going?”

Sherlock paused, having forgotten that Joan was even there. She said nothing, staring at the starless sky lit up bright by the lights of the city, rethinking her plan. Mistakes would not be forgiven, not this late in the game.

“Do you need me?”

“No,” said Sherlock, curtly, blinking once at Joan before striding away.

Joan stood in the street, alone, holding papers she didn’t understand and unsure what she should do. Sherlock needed her, of course she did. That hadn’t been an overarching statement, that had been merely a response to the question at hand. Joan drew in a breath of night air. There would be something she could do, surely.

She rang Mycroft, and he answered on the fourth ring. He sounded tired and harried, and he had no information that helped.

That Moriarty had information spanning Sherlock’s life did not surprise him.

“There have been a few break-ins, one at St Marks and another at the rehabilitation facility Sherlock was in after school,” he said. “I only discovered that tonight, when I looked. I should have made sure I was aware of such occurrences.” Joan didn’t blame him. He did so much looking out for his sister as it was. “Where is she now?”

“Dashed off to god knows where.” There was a long silence on the other end, and Joan thought he had hung up.

“Please be safe, Dr Watson.”

-

Joan wandered the streets for a time, trying to think, but she knew she couldn’t figure it out. Normally she didn’t mind that. She was a soldier, and she was a doctor, she wasn’t useless, but Sherlock needed her and she had no idea what she could do.

-

The panic she felt at the call about Mrs Hudson was almost a relief, after hours of sitting and waiting. Sherlock seemed calmer, sitting in the hospital laboratory, as though she were waiting for some _thing_ rather than some realisation about the case. There was a crick in Joan’s neck from how she had been sitting, head on the bench, and an ache in her stomach.

“Mrs Hudson’s been shot.”

“Oh, really?” Sherlock sounded entirely unconcerned.

“Probably by one of the killers you managed to attract. Jesus, fuck,” she went to hit the cabinet, thought better of it and swiped a hand roughly through her hair. “She’s dying, Sherlock, let’s go.”

“You go, I’m busy.” Her voice was monotonic. There was no worry, no anger.

“Busy, you’re busy?” Joan glared at the wall, afraid of hitting Sherlock again if she looked at her. “You’ve been sitting in that damn chair for the last I don’t know how many hours. You are not fucking busy. Doesn’t she mean anything to you?”

“I need to think.” Joan looked at her, and couldn’t stomach it. Sherlock’s face was near-on serene.

“Jesus. To hell with you. Stay here, then, alone.”

“Alone is what I am, Joan. Alone protects me.” Joan paused at the door.

“Nope. Friends protect people.”

The door didn’t slam, and she kicked at it roughly for that, but there was no time. She ran through the hospital, only to realise once she was out on the street that Mrs Hudson would have been brought there and was likely even now in emergency. Hot with anger at Sherlock, she got lost twice trying to get there.

Of course, there was nothing she could do. She was a doctor, excellent at dealing with gunshot wounds, but there were other doctors. Here, she was just a friend of the family. Someone to be hustled away and settled quietly in a waiting area.

Joan had a brief fight with a vending machine before coming away victorious with a packet of chips. Her fingers itched to ring Lestrade to find out what happened with Mrs Hudson, but she didn’t know how that would go down. She didn’t particularly relish being arrested again.

Hours had passed, and she’d managed to acquire herself another packet of chips before Mrs Hudson was stabilised, groggy and wanting to sleep again. Joan dozed at her side, waking at every beep and every nurse coming in to take vitals. Her phone remained eerily silent, but out of stubbornness she didn’t text Sherlock to find out what was happening.

Her stomach growled unhappily, and she patted Mrs Hudson’s hand in farewell before leaving to find a cafe for breakfast.

 

 -

 

 “Joan, I’m sorry.” Joan was on the last dregs of her coffee when the phone call came. She looked up sharply, half expecting Sherlock to walk through the door of the cafe.

 “It’s okay. You’ve often an ass. Did you fix everything?” At the silence, she stood up quickly. “Where are you?”

“At the hospital.” Joan hurried out of the cafe and turned a corner, nearly colliding with a man laden with bags. She mumbled an apology and kept going. Sherlock said nothing, or the quiet rumbling of the early morning street carried it away.

“Stop.” She stumbled to a halt. “Look up.” Joan looked up at the sky, and saw nothing but an empty wash of grey.

“It’s cloudy.”

“No, Joan. Look up, at the roof.”

Sherlock’s figure was a small black smudge against the sky. Joan took a few more steps.

“What are you doing up there? Get down from there, come on. We’ll talk about this when you’re down here.” She could see the slight shake of Sherlock’s head.

“Joan, I’m so sorry.” There was a pause as Sherlock swallowed. “It’s all true. Moriarty isn’t real. I’m a fake.”

Joan froze.

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare. You can’t say that to me, of all people.”

“Joan.”

There was a loud sigh on the other end of the phone.

“Joan, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left you at Hartswood, I’m sorry it took me so long to want you back. I’m sorry for everything.”

“Sherlock, it’s okay. It’s done. I have you, now. You should come down.”

Sherlock said nothing.

“I’m coming up.”

“No! Stay right there. Don’t move. Please, just,” her voice broke in the phone, and Joan felt a sob in her own throat.

“I love you,” said Sherlock. “I love you so much.”

“I love you,” said Joan. “What are you doing?”

“It’s my note. That’s what people do, don’t they? They leave a note?”

“Sherlock, what,” Joan couldn’t finish the question.

“I love you,” said Sherlock.

Joan saw the little black rectangle of the phone tumble from Sherlock’s outstretched hand, and she ran as fast as she could.

She was too slow to catch her.  


End file.
